Long Journey Home
by Phantom Night Owl
Summary: Two unlikely people forge an alliance and a tentative friendship in the dark days of the Paris Commune. A young ballerina is saved from a horrible fate by a deformed recluse deep in the bowels of the Paris Opera House. Together they overcome the deprivations of war, and Louise must learn to understand the paradox that is Erik. Begins ten years before the events in Leroux's book.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N ****Hi everyone! Another story for your reading pleasure (or not, as the case may be;) Let me just say up front, that this is **_**not**_** E/C. Sorry to those expecting it, but I hope you give it a shot all the same. ****T****his fic begins in the dark days of the Paris Commune, a fascinating bit of French history if you're ****interested. Leroux's book touched upon it and so did Kay's.**

**This story will ramble a bit, and gradually lead up to the events in the book and hopefully beyond, but if the interest isn't there, I won't waste my time and yours and I'll wrap it up around ten chapters or so. But it **_**will**_** have an ending...I won't leave unfinished stories behind ****cluttering up the site****. Way too many of those as it is.**

**Please review. It's the meat and potatoes of any ff writer. You don't want me to starve, do you? One word or a hundred, dear reader, and anything in between...it's your call.**

**We start off with a T-rating, but that may change further into the story. Okay, I'll shut up now :)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing associated with Phantom of the Opera in any way shape or form, except my ongoing interest in its haunting story and characters.**

* * *

Paris- 1871

It wasn't the chill and damp air that demoralized her. Nor was it the absence of sunlight for the fifth day straight. The lack of privacy in the cell that she had shared with two other frightened souls was endurable simply for the scant comfort they provided. And now they too were gone- taken away during the endless night of the underground. But none of those things brought her as low as the disappearance of the eyes that she had come to expect. She first saw them not long after she and the others were rounded up on the street- poked and prodded into the unfinished opera house. They had become a beacon to her; something for her troubled mind to latch on to and steady her increasing spiral into utter hopelessness. The last time they had stared fixedly at her, the middle aged factory worker in the cell next to hers was being led away. The man never returned. And neither had the yellow eyes which observed her with an animal-like intensity.

She asked the others if _they_ saw those golden orbs in the dark passage outside the dungeon. The look they gave her, closed her mouth in a hurry. Cosette eyed her worriedly, but Madame Bellard only laughed. Louise thought she was losing her mind.

"Ay, girl. We are all of us seeing things in this Godforsaken hole. Poor Georges won't any longer." The old seamstress turned her head and coughed. "At least he doesn't have to worry anymore about an empty belly." Her look was sly. "Too bad you aren't a more comely wench. It may have spared you for a while longer, I'm thinking. But you're a skinny little thing and plain as brown paper."

Cosette cast a surly glance Claudine's way. "No need to frighten her anymore than she already is. Or me. You don't know that Georges won't come back." She clutched her thin shawl closer and turned to the other girl, whose face was nearly leached of color, appearing as though her blood was a used up commodity. "You're tired, Louise. And hungry. That's all. It's causing you to see what isn't there." She stared into the blackness beyond the fitful guttering of torchlight at each end of the chamber. "I don't blame you for seeing things though- maybe it was the devil himself you saw, and this is Hell." She crossed herself and looked up at the ceiling in tired wonderment. "Who would believe there's an entire theatre above our heads?"

"It's not so much of a theatre now, if it ever was; it wasn't finished before this insanity, and if peace ever returns to us, they will be weeks cleaning up the blood and offal left behind." Madame Ballard watched the younger girl's face blanch even more and warmed to her subject. "They turned it into a hospital of all things. I heard it said that one wall was stacked high with severed arms and legs. There's so many dead lyin' about, there's barely any room for the living! Why, I was told they-"

"You are trying to frighten her again, madame," Cossette said wearily. "There _is_ no hospital up there. Long before we were brought here, the place was already being used to store military goods." She turned to the other girl with a forced smile. "Louie, remember that enormous balloon we saw not long ago? It landed on the opera house roof that day. Wasn't it exciting? Spying on the Prussians someone told us."

Louise nodded tiredly, but her imagination was still stuck on bloody piles of limbs lying about on the marble floors of the grand entrance. She would have been horrified a month ago at such a terrible thing, but she never blinked at this bit of barbarity now. She still believed it was true. She leaned her head against the stone wall, trying to ignore the sharp pinching in her belly. Twice a day they were given a slice of bread each, and a jug of stale water to be shared with their cell mates. Against her will, she thought of the fresh bread and jam she had once eaten and taken for granted, her mouth watering in remembrance at the same time her eyes did. She knuckled the tears away, and huddled into herself, drawing her knobby knees up to her chin. Maybe she was hallucinating those eyes. An owl maybe, or perhaps a cat. No. As incredible as it seemed, they were human. Of course they were, and she had seen eyes very similar to those, three months past. To her fourteen year old self, it was a lifetime ago.

It had been near the end of January during an icy rain, the roads empty of people. Only the very brave or the very desperate ventured out when the cannon fire began. Most stayed indoors and huddled in their cellars during the heavy Prussian shelling of the city. After hours of pure terror and misery, the bombardment finally ended, and members of the National Guard dodged the smoking rubble left behind. They avoided the carcasses, animal or human foolish enough to be caught in the maelstrom of hellish noise and flesh-rending shrapnel. They evaded the debris of those unlucky enough to have a shell make a direct hit on the home they had once considered safe. The men came down Louise's street with provisions to hand out to the starving citizenry, and her mother had sent her out to get one of the hard to attain packages of food.

"Don't talk to them Louise. Just take the food. They must never know your father was a conscript in the army. If the Communards knew this, they would make life even more miserable for us, if possible." Her face was worn and sad, hardly the pretty young woman her father used to pick up as though she weighed nothing and kiss repeatedly, while her mother clutched his broad shoulders, and feigned indignity with laughing eyes. Louise had watched their playful antics, happy because they were happy. The face looking at her in the harsh light of a winter's day, had aged immeasurably from grief and the madness of the Prussian siege.

She had heeded her mother, and was able to procure a coveted food package for them. That night, she crept out their back door with a few small pieces of bread. If her mother knew she was doing this, there would be hell to pay, for every scrap of food was precious and not to be wasted on a stray. "Here, little cat. Come, come," she crooned. She had discovered the small feline one morning in a corner of their alley. It was like the rest of Paris- dispirited and hungry. She sneaked a meal to it every chance she got, and now the striped cat needed the food more than ever, for she had recently given birth. She told no one about them- pets had become scarce in the city; dogs, cats, and even horses were considered viable sources of food for the starving populace.

She called to the scrawny cat in a soft voice, and looked to the back corner of the alley where she kept her little family in a nest of refuse. A slight noise made her look up, and she sucked in a sharp breath when she gazed into the yellow eyes of a predator beaming down at her. She backed up hurriedly, tripping in her haste to get away and sat down hard in a puddle of icy water. The alley was a dead end, the brick of the next apartment building making up the back wall.

Frightened, she scrambled to her feet, and turned to race into the house, when a chilling voice stopped her. "Wait."

Something in that one soft word gave her pause; that, and the fact that she was struck dumb by what she had seen. She had one hand on the doorknob, but turned without conscious thought, to face those disturbing eyes once more, when voices could be heard from the street out front.

"He came this way, I tell you. We should split up and cover both sides of the road. If we don't catch him soon, there won't be any provisions left." Someone muttered a quiet protest, and the first man snarled at him, "Damn your eyes for an imbecile! He's hit the store room every night this week." He nudged the man standing beside him. "You'll be the next one face down in a ditch if he does it again."

The man spat in the mud, glancing around at the street where people were now drifting out of their homes in their usual hesitant manner. It was the animal instinct for self preservation, inbred in the human race- as though every ten years God decreed a war to test the French mettle to survive. "Renee was strangled. Whatever that thing was, it broke his neck. He spat again, and hefted his weapon. "It _broke _his fucking neck! Give me five minutes alone with the bastard. He'll get both ends of this rifle! That was half the food we had stashed away- he took it practically from under our very noses!"

They stood there indecisively, and Louise could just make them out in the meager light from their kitchen. National Guard soldiers- members of the Commune. She turned and looked into the nocturnal eyes again. Whatever creature was in the alley with her, it was black as pitch and resembled nothing more than a large bird of prey. But it seemed to be waiting for her to call out to the soldiers. _Expecting_ it.

"Louise? Child, what are you doing out here? It's not safe. Come inside."

The soldiers in the street heard her mother and called out to them, "Madame, have you seen anyone around here in the last half hour? Someone suspicious?"

Her mother had stepped out the door, and pulled her daughter toward her. "Suspicious? That could well be half the population of this Godforsaken city. But, no. No, I haven't. Come, Louise," her mother said firmly, and tugged on her arm with more force.

"Mama? Mama-" She couldn't get the words to leave her mouth. She had been intending to call attention to the strange creature in the alley with them, but instead said nothing.

"What about your girl there? Seen anyone, mam'selle? A tall, very thin man. Moves like one of these alley cats. It wasn't more than a half hour ago."

Again she felt the seconds slow down and hang there, everything seeming to hinge on her answer. She could almost feel _his_ eyes scorching the back of her neck, for he was more than likely the man for whom they were searching. Her skin prickled. "No, monsieur. N-No one."

Time righted itself and moved on. Her mother had dragged her into their shabby apartment, and shut the door on the inhospitable night, and the shade hovering silently in the corner.

She hadn't seen him since that winter evening, but she was sure he was here in the cellar with them now. And in the oddest way, staring into those strange eyes gave her comfort. Especially when they came for Claudine Bellard. She turned to Louise and Cosette, a film of greasy sweat on her brow, and her eyes shining with terror.

"Pray for me," she cried in a faint voice. "Oh, but I feel sick-"

"It is merely a few questions, then you'll be released. Answer them honestly and you will be on your way in no time at all," the friendlier of the guards told the frightened woman. Not that anyone believed it.

The two Guardsmen led her away to catcalls and insults from the other inhabitants of the cells- mostly men. Louise cried a few tears for Madame Bellard, even though the woman for the most part had been mean to her. Cold and hungry, she fell into an exhausted doze, only to be awakened by Cosette.

The older girl sat down beside her on the iron cot bolted to the wall. There were only two filthy beds in the narrow cell, and the two girls had shared one. Now they each had their own, but continued to sleep together for the warmth each could bring, but more important than even that tiny comfort, was the solace of shared misery. "You were crying out, Louie. The dream again?"

Louise nodded wearily and scrubbed at her hollow eyes. "It's this blackness. There's no natural light at all down here," she paused, staring sightless into the dark, "and the catacombs are close to where we are, aren't they?"

"Yes. I-I think so. The dream. What was it about?"

"It's always the s-same. I'm approaching a room at the end of the hallway and push open the door. I am angry for some reason- I don't know why, but I want to lash out at...at someone. _A__nyone. _Underneath the anger and s-sorrow though, there is a warm feeling like coming home after a long, harrowing day, and knowing I will be...safe and...and cherished. Knowing..." A shiver rippled violently through her, and the other girl rubbed Louise's arms briskly.

"Go on," Cosette prompted softly.

"..._knowing _I will be loved," she said finally. "There is very little light, but enough to see a man in a...a bed, I-I think. I can't see his face because it's in shadow, b-but he's so still, and...and-" She dropped her face into her hands, her voice muffled. "I can't look, I am so frightened of what I will see! But I know it's horrible- I don't want to look." Louise stared up at her friend. "S-Sometimes I'm almost afraid to close my eyes."

Cosette was her best friend, and for the most part they managed to hold each other together, propping one another up when despair chipped away at their tiny bit of optimism. But dreams no longer bothered Cosette; the nightmare was being awake. She comforted the girl as well as she could. "They seem real, don't they? They can't hurt you though. Myself, I take every opportunity to sleep. It gets me away from here when I do."

Louise's eyes were shadowed with fear. "If a time comes when I look at _it__s _face, that is when I will die." she whispered with unshakable conviction. "I know it." She leaned against the wall and regarded her friend with lost hope. "Why are they keeping us? What have we done that is so wrong, except try to stay alive?"

The older girl looked tiredly at her friend. "We're pawns, Louise. That's all this is. Someone, I don't know, maybe a neighbor or...or a shop keeper whispered in somebody's ear, that we were against the Commune. The Republic takes hostages and the Communards answer in kind." Her sigh was harsh. "They think they can get information from us as though we actually know something of value. Just keep us locked up in the cold and dark, then after a few days of watching our cell mates leave, we will cave in." She stared out the bars, feeling numb with cold and fatigue. "And if we weren't entirely innocent, we probably would. At the rate both sides are going, there won't be anyone left in Paris before this madness is over."

She took hold of the girl's icy hand, and stared hard at her. "There's always hope, Louie. You must remember that! They take us away one by one and interrogate us, then-" She shrugged her slender shoulders. "Who knows? Maybe Georges and Madame Bellard...and the others, were exchanged for Republic prisoners. Why, they did exactly that the week before." She held her arms out to the girl. "Come. We can share our body heat to keep warm."

Louise sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. She stared at the dreary cell, clutching her friend tightly, and remembered better days when their worries were simple ones, and dying was an eternity away. Her eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion taking over.

Two days later, Cosette was taken from their cell. Louise stood and watched as her friend was dragged away. They had been led out to the latrines as they were every morning, then fed a meager breakfast on their return. When the guards approached their cell once more, Louise started to tremble, her fear growing with every step closer to the cell that they came. When the husky guard named Luc opened the door and stepped in, both girls as one, backed to the wall, holding tightly to one another.

"You there," he said gesturing to Cosette, "we're takin' another walk. Just a short one. Come." He reached for her, and the girls pressed back into the wall as though flesh and bone could be absorbed into the dank stone.

The second guard joined the first, and the older girl started to unwind her arms from her friend's. Tears in her eyes, she kissed Louise on one dirty cheek and pulled away. "God be with you, L-Louise. I will see you soon." Looking back one last time, she was led away, nearly swallowed between the much larger men. "...s-soon!"

Devastated, Louise slid to her knees, and put her face against the iron bars. "Please, _please_! Don't hurt her. Her name is Cosette and she has done nothing wrong." Her knuckles ached from grasping the cell door, horrified at how powerless they all were. Sorrow and anger raged within her slight frame.

"Holy Father. I want to sleep now. I want to sleep and dream only good things." She said it over and over, desperately willing herself back in her bed at home. She grasped the bars tighter. Cosette!" she called to the terrified girl, "Cosette, I will pray for your safe return home!"

The other inmates of the cells began their strident cacophony of sound, the fetid air filled with jeers and curses. Louise moaned and slumped against the bars, squeezing her eyes shut. Minutes crawled by, but finally she crept to the back of the cell and huddled there, shivering uncontrollably. She had no more tears.

In the morning, the women were led to the pit latrines as they were twice a day- once in the morning and again in the early evening. The only reliable way to tell the time of day was the changing of their guard, and the dubious care given to the hostages. Louise knew it was early in the morning by the arrival of the surly day guards, who lined the women up to lead them to the latrines. There were six women, and roughly the guards shoved them into a line, even though their was no need for their brutishness. Louise shuffled along with the others and quickly finished up, always self-conscious and embarrassed with the guards close by.

Nearing the dungeon area, she happened to glance up. And just like that, the glowing eyes were there once again, seeming to wink in and out of sight. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. They were still there, and to the young girl, it was like seeing a good friend after a long absence. Tears made tracks through the dirt on her face after an entire night of being alone and scared, grieving for Cosette.

Not wishing to call attention to him, she reluctantly looked away. As they crossed another passage, the rear Guardsman went sprawling to the ground. Louise was suddenly grabbed by the back of her dress and plucked from the rear of the line as neatly as though she weighed nothing at all. She heard her dress rip as she was yanked unceremoniously backward, and automatically began to struggle. Cold hands tightened inexorably on her, and the voice from the alley was hissing into her ear.

"Be still, dreary girl, or they can have you back." She instantly ceased fighting him, not relishing the idea at all.

The two guards rounded up the group of women into a tight circle, and looked in disbelief at their comrade lying on the ground. It was then that they noticed the girl was missing. "She took him by surprise and knocked him out," said one.

"You're a damn fool, Pascal! That wisp of a girl couldn't have overpowered him even with a cocked gun! He tripped over something and hit his head when he fell. Luc is so fuckin' clumsy I'm amazed he can walk upright half the time. That girl just wandered off somewhere."

"What should we do? Go after her?"

"She could be anywhere, and I'm not looking for her. You go if you want. The only thing we have to do is get these women back to their cells. Forget the damned girl. She won't last very long down here. She'll be wishin' she was back in her cell; there's thieves and cutthroats in this hellhole, and they would love tender new flesh like hers- even bony as she is. A little young for my taste," he said, eying the buxom hostage standing near him, "but female all the same." He turned, and in the feeble light from the lantern, stared hard at the remaining women. "Say nothing, you hear?" His voice dripped with menace. "Your food rations could be cut in half- think you're hungry now? Speak of this, and you will find out what hunger truly is."

Luc, by this time was sitting up groggily, holding his bleeding head. "Someone hit me," he mumbled, looking up at the other two men.

Pascal nervously stepped closer to the other guard. "I hate this place. You and I both know it would be easy to disappear down here. It's already happened a time or two. This is Satan's unholy ground."

"More like the Devil's fat ass." Luc touched his forehead gingerly. "Did anyone else see a cat?"

"There's no cat down in this stinkin' armpit! You've been in the dark for too long."

They helped him to his feet, and with a last look over their shoulders, they took the women back to the dungeon.

* * *

He tugged the girl along behind him, only slowing down when she went to her knees, having trouble keeping up with his much longer strides. With bruising fingers, he grasped her wrist and yanked her to her feet.

"Please, monsieur-" as she winced from a scraped knee.

"I should just leave her here. She's nothing to me, but a spindly little nuisance," he muttered, used to conversing with no one but himself.

"Monsieur?"

He turned and looked at her. He could see her quite clearly, as he surveyed the girl up and down. He had acted out of a rare moment of charitableness. It hadn't been planned on his part- he just happened to be in the side passage when the Guardsmen came through with the women, and didn't think twice about what he was doing. Kindness was not something to which he was familiar- giving or receiving it. It was an uncommon occurrence- her silence that evening in the alley assured his escape, and the unbidden impulse was to pay her back in kind- which he already regretted. He had never spared a thought for anyone but himself.

Louise though, saw nothing but a faint silhouette in the gloom. "Where are you taking me?" she asked him timidly.

He stopped and appeared to be thinking, and she waited patiently, until he turned his lantern-like eyes on her. Standing next to the man, she felt very small and inconsequential, for the feral eyes were far above her. She felt a stirring of fright- she didn't know the man's name or why he had rescued her. For the first time she wondered if this creature whom she had never actually seen, was indeed someone to fear. Was no one safe anymore? she thought wearily.

He never meant to help her; he merely acted on an impulse to free her from the dungeons, for she would have been next to die- questioned for answers she didn't have, and then led to another part of the vast cellars to join a group of equally frightened hostages and shot. His thin lips peeled back from his teeth. They invaded _his_ home, stopped work on the most beautiful house of music in the entire world, and forced him to slink in and out of the mammoth unfinished building to escape detection.

Yes. Where to take her? He only wanted to wash his hands of the girl. He was not a disciple of altruism. Had no wish to be a hero. No. Not at all. "I'll get you out of the theatre, mam'selle, then you may go wherever you like."

She felt relief and trepidation at the same time. Prior to her arrest, she was living on the streets, and lucky to have remained unmolested. "Do you live near the opera house, monsieur?"

He swallowed a laugh. "Close enough." Louise glanced uneasily at him, hearing that deep-throated chuckle which raised the fine hairs on her neck.

As they walked, she wondered about her strange companion. What was he doing in the opera house? Was he there just to free her? Timidly, she attempted to show her gratefulness, "Thank you for what you did. I-"

"Soldiers," he hissed, and grabbed her arm again. Turning neatly around, he quickly reversed direction, tugging her behind him. They had been walking steadily upward, her companion slightly in front and Louise following close behind, when he had thrown an arm out to stop her.

Sure enough, she heard the voices of several men coming their way. The man pulling her along, quickened his steps, and once more she was forced into keeping up with his long legs. They reached a corridor with passages to the left and right; in the right passage, the sounds of shuffling feet could be heard, and her yellow eyed companion veered to the left. "Change of plans, girl. We seem to be surrounded at the moment. You shall be my house guest for a time. As much as I'm certain you do not wish it, I can assure you, neither do I."

Louise couldn't summon a reply for him. She was very busy just trying to stay on her feet. Unfortunately, she had come to expect a life filled with sorrow and woe. This development was merely a wrinkle. At least she wasn't sitting alone in a cell, waiting for her own death. She had no idea what would happen to her- she didn't have any choice in the matter. She said nothing, but let him lead her onward into the darkness.

* * *

**Who's with me? Show of hands, please.**


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't think I can take another step, monsieur." She was winded and barely upright, her rescuer now becoming her new jailer, with his bony fingers imprisoning her wrist in a painfully tight grip.

"You will keep walking or get left behind. Would you like that? You will be facing a firing squad if they take you back. It is where the others went, and you will be no different." He spared a glance for her. "It's what happened to the two women in the cell with you- shot and shoved unceremoniously into a ditch. Killing has become an avocation for these cretins, and there is no sign of it ending soon."

He was talking all the while as the two of them put distance between themselves and the Communards. Louise had known all along what became of the others. Of Cosette. Dear God, her poor friend. She was no longer naïve enough to expect last minute interventions. But to have him speak of it in such a cold-hearted manner, made her wonder at his humanity. Or lack of it. She hurriedly swallowed a sob, and concentrated on keeping up with him and his punishing gait.

They came out of the corridor and into a wider area of broken stone which crunched beneath their feet. She caught the dull sheen of water and sucked in a breath. There had been talk of a lake beneath the opera house, but most had merely scoffed at that. He led her to the edge of the water and stopped. To her it looked cold and oily, the ripples appearing like so many wriggling silver and ebony snakes. She shuddered with dread.

"How deep is it?" she whispered anxiously, eying the black surface with misgiving. "I-I can not swim."

He didn't answer her, but once again cursed whatever mad imp had led him to involvement with this tedious girl child. She was quickly proving to be a nuisance. "Stay here and be silent." He dropped her arm and she rubbed where his grip had pinched her. She was tired and hungry, nearly collapsing where she stood, but stopped herself in time. She had no wish to anger her strange companion. She could sense his growing impatience with her, and didn't want to be abandoned to the dark and the mercy of the Communards again.

After a few minutes she heard a slight scraping, and the man returned, pulling a small boat through the water parallel to the edge. "Get in," he said, voice clipped.

She did as told and the man followed, lightly jumping in and pushing off with an oar. He picked up a second oar and began rowing swiftly into the darkness before them. Louise shivered and hugged her arms around her body. She could see his eyes searching the gloom for any movement, and she shuddered again. "I heard tales of a lake down here, but never believed any of them."

He said nothing for a moment, then cut his eyes in her direction. She felt a quiver of fear now when he turned them on her- they were unnatural, and she didn't care for them at all. What had once given her a modicum of comfort in the cell, now made her uneasy.

She had been looking desperately for a sign from anyone- any_thing _that would prove her not forsaken. She had taken that citrine gaze as proof that she was not alone, but he was oddly invisible to her in the chill dark until she caught a flash from those unholy eyes. Then she felt as though she were moving in a dreamscape, and reality as she knew it, left far behind. Maybe her mind had truly collapsed under the weight of her despair, a petrified Cosette being led away, finally sending her plummeting over the edge. There was another velvet chuckle from him- her ears were also a part of the conspiracy to drive her insane, and they were working very well in this particular nightmare.

Feeling slightly panicky, she tried to get him to speak. His voice was beautiful. Surely he had a handsome face to go with it. His tone though was cold, but she wished only to hear it again. His silence was unnerving to her. "It is very strange, monsieur. Like a tale told to entertain children."

"Erik could tell you _many _strange tales, mam'selle. You would be amazed, I dare say."

"E-Erik?"

He paused in his rowing for a moment, and bowed easily from the waist. "At your service, Mademoiselle- Louise, is it not?"

"Yes. Louise..."

"Well, we are arrived," he smoothly interrupted her, and with a dramatic flair, swept a long arm out. "Welcome to my humble abode." He hopped out of the boat, nimble as any monkey, and tugged it toward him. "Out with you, and be quick about it. It doesn't pay to linger much these days, as I am sure you understand."

She hurriedly left the boat, stumbling as she did so. He made no move to help her. Once again he bade her to wait for him, and pulled the little boat down the edge of the lake until the darkness swallowed him. She stared hard into the inky shadows, trying to penetrate the gloom with no success. She was confused. Home? They hadn't stepped outside; she was certain of that.

When he returned, he grasped her elbow and guided her away from the water, crossing to an area where the shadows disappeared into the perpetual blackness. She wouldn't allow herself to consider how precarious her situation was- into the darkness with a man she wouldn't even recognize in the light of day. A man who saved her from an ignominious death- a death for no other reason than which side she appeared to be on.

Louise was wholly dependent on Erik to guide her- it was difficult to see anything, but he seemed to be completely at ease. Finally to her relief, he halted and she could hear sly movements in the dark. "Enter, young Louise. My home is..._your_ home." Sarcasm came heavy from his lips as he gave her a little nudge forward. She stepped into a room where pale light suddenly flared, and the door closed, shutting them inside and away from any prying eyes. He turned from lighting the wall lamp, and found her staring wide-eyed at him.

"You wear a mask." It was said quietly, almost as if she had instead remarked on his choice of neckwear, which in this case was a navy blue Belcher tie. Her tired mind was trying to process too much information at once; an emaciated man, long limbs seeming to go on endlessly- a scarecrow standing before her wearing a black mask which covered nearly all of his face, save for nearly non-existent lips and a bony chin. It was a macabre sight, and coupled with the fact that his _home _was in the cellars of an opera house, it made her feel even less awake and more like she was moving through a disturbing and vexing dream. Seeking clarity, she viciously pinched herself. It hurt.

Her intention wasn't lost on Erik. Cocking his head, he stared down at her with a knowing smirk. "You are indeed awake. Make no mistake about that."

He needn't have pointed out the obvious to her as she rubbed her bruised arm. Her eyes smarted as they adjusted to the lamp. Although it was soft candlelight, it was more than she was used to, as the flame cast flickering shadows on the stone walls.

Erik said nothing, standing very still as though waiting for her hysterics to begin. "Was it the war?" Louise had seen many men with terrible scars from the fighting around Paris, hiding faces torn apart by shot and shell, many of them missing eyes.

"The war?" He stared at her a moment more, then a laugh exploded out of his mouth, rolling around the room in a gleeful way that had nothing to do with amusement- it sounded half-mad, and she found herself taking a hasty step backward. He saw the movement and the laugh was abruptly silenced, though she swore she could still hear its echo. He observed her from eyes the color of gold coins.

"No, child. Nothing as simple as a war. But the wearer of _this_," and he indicated his mask, "has been engaged in battles because of it his entire life." He chuckled again, then stopped, seeing her dismay. "It is an affliction the Devil bestowed on me, young Louise. God in his infinite wisdom had nothing to do with it. But don't worry," he entreated her, "you will never see Erik's face."

She nodded, not sure of his mood; he was a stranger to her and an odd one at that. "I've never known anyone to live in an opera house before. Do you live alone?" She was edging toward a faded upholstered chair. She was exhausted, and she needed to sit down for a while, but his next words halted her progress.

"You ask too many questions. I would be very careful with that unseemly curiosity of yours." He eyed her as she stood swaying on her feet. "Sit down someplace before you _fall _down. I have to go out, and might be gone for some time."

"May I go with you? I'm very grateful for what you did, but I don't want to intrude on you any longer than necessary."

"I'm afraid you aren't going anywhere. It's far too dangerous. You will have to get used to the idea of living here for a while."

"It wouldn't be too dangerous for me. You can just..."

"Not for you, tiresome girl. I can move around much easier on my own without encumbrances- of which you are one. There are too many people all of a sudden in my domain. I came here to shut out the world- not have it move in with me." Once again, he was truculent and dismissive, proving she walked a fine line with this man, and seemed to veer ever closer to crossing it at her peril.

He tugged a rough workman's cap lower on his forehead and buttoned his coat- one which was worn and becoming threadbare. Quickly, he lit a kerosene lamp and trimmed the wick low. Handing it to her, he narrowed his eyes. "Stay out of my rooms, do you understand?" He pointed to the doorway on the right. There is a water closet just through there. I suggest you make use of soap and water, for you are in dire need of it. But go no further," he warned.

He turned and disappeared out the door. Louise waited a moment, listening closely, and convinced he was gone, stared nonplussed at where she had seen an open door. Before her was nothing but a seamless wooden wall that made up the front of this peculiar home. She ran a hand down the wall and felt nothing but smoothness as she looked for a telltale crack, and finding none, goggled at it until her eyes burned. Finally, in defeat, she turned away. She had exchanged one cell for another.

She gazed curiously around, her fear momentarily forgotten. The room was mostly bare and windowless, containing the floral parlor chair, a rosewood side table, and a green sofa whose nap was nearly bald in places. The walls, other than the front one, were rough stone, as was the floor; there was a fireplace with a carved stone mantel, but at the moment, the hearth held only cold ashes. How she wished with all of her heart for the warmth and cheer of a fire. To the right of the fireplace sat a small pile of wood which appeared to be the remnants of a chair. Doorways were to the left and right of the main room. Obviously he had made an effort to make the space into a suitable place to live.

Louise decided this would be a good time to visit the water closet. She emptied her bladder, finishing quickly, then filled a basin with cold water- there was no hot. Spying a small tin of soft soap, she quickly stripped her soiled clothing off, and washed the best she could, her skin pebbling with goosebumps from the icy water. There were no towels, so she used her dress to dry herself. She would have loved to have fresh clothes, but it was a luxury she didn't have anymore. Reluctantly she put back on her dirty dress. There was nothing she could do about her hair; it was matted and snarled from days of not feeling a brush through it. And filthy. She tidied up the small room and left it as she found it, her feet taking her across the hall to a partially open door. Holding her breath, she gave it a push and peeked inside.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to the musical notes painted meticulously in black letters on ledger lines round the entire room near the ceiling. All the symbols were there- treble clef, key signature, time signature. She knew it well. It was the Dies Irae- The Day of Wrath. She swallowed and forced her gaze away, noting the iron bedstead in one corner of the room, the bed neatly made and a blanket folded at its foot. A small wooden stand held a half melted candle in a tin holder, and a book using a folded piece of paper, kept its place marked.

The last item of furniture in the room was a kitchen chair, but what caught her eye was what was sitting on it. It was an old violin, its finish worn off on portions of the chin rest and neck. Intrigued, she started toward it, but stopped. She didn't think it would be wise to anger her erstwhile host just yet. He seemed already to be regretting her presence in his home.

She went back to the main room and sat down on the sofa. Drowsy, she stretched out on her side and curled into a ball, closing her eyes. At the least, she was more comfortable now than she'd been in the squalid dungeon cell, but was she any safer? She heaved a ragged sigh and fought to stay awake as she waited for him to return, but before long, sleep pulled her down into its waiting arms.

The sound of the door opening woke her. She sat up, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. Erik walked over to the sofa and stood silently observing her. He was holding a small covered pail, which he held up for her inspection. "Hungry? I have soup. Come and eat some." He indicated the doorway on the left. "The kitchen is just through there."

"Soup? Monsieur, it has been so long since I have tasted something other than stale bread!" Louise jumped up from the sofa and followed him shyly into a plain room holding a small black stove, a scrubbed wooden counter, and a kitchen table with one chair tucked up to it.

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. "Yes. It might work very well. That rat's nest of hair will have to go, and a better dress," he muttered, looking her up and down, "then we shall see."

It had occurred to him that he could use the girl. It was only a matter of time before he was caught in his raids against Commune storehouses; in particular, the storerooms above his head. He helped himself to the food stored in the theatre whenever he couldn't find it elsewhere, but he was cautious about taking it so near to his home. If caught, it would not go well for him- they would make certain he was put on display before executing him, and he would rather not be the object of further derision and scorn.

But with the girl he could perhaps bring in a few francs. The idea had come to him as he made his nightly forage for food. It was worth a try, for what else was he to do with her? To let her go would leave him open to arrest if she gave the location of his home away. He shied away from killing her; he was no stranger to death; after all, they had much in common, didn't they? But killing a woman was something he had never done lightly. He continued his careful perusal of her.

"Yes. We must think about it."

Louise didn't care at all for the way he was talking to himself and studying her. She hovered there, eying the pail of soup hungrily, for she could smell it now, and her stomach rumbled eagerly in reply. She was however, uncertain of him again.

"Sit down, girl and eat!" She jumped when he barked at her, and dragged her gaze away from the pail to his masked face again, before sitting down at the table. He went to a tall green cabinet, and took out one soup bowl, filling it from the pail. He set it in front of her with a spoon, and watched as she took a bite. Then another. The soup was thin with very few vegetables, and no meat whatsoever, but Louise didn't care. It tasted wonderful.

She looked up at Erik, and remembering her manners, reluctantly set her spoon down. She wasn't a common guttersnipe. "Aren't you eating?"

"No," he said shortly. He observed her as she stared glumly at her nearly empty bowl. He sighed, and poured the rest of the soup into it, and gestured for her to continue, watching as she made the second serving disappear as quickly as the first. He left the room and returned with the wooden chair from his bedchamber and sat down across from her; unconsciously, she leaned away from him. He waited, curbing his impatience until she finished. She used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth, feeling marginally better with something in her belly.

"How long were you in training?" he asked her abruptly.

"Training?"

"Don't be foolish. You know exactly what I'm asking," he replied harshly.

She licked her lips, sad that all the soup was gone, but surprised at his knowledge. "Two years at the Salle Ventadour." She looked up at him curiously. "How did you know?"

"It's fairly obvious to anyone familiar with the corps de ballet. Your stance, the way you walk." He snorted. "Even in the way you place your hands. A petite rat. How delightful." He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her closely. "You must miss it."

To Louise's finely attuned ears, Erik sounded pleased. That was encouraging. "The doors closed when the siege began. Yes, I miss it. Someday I hope to go back and continue, but Cosette...Cosette w-won't be there. She was a student also. Older than me by two years. She was my dear friend and now s-she is gone." She twisted her fingers together, not wishing to cry in front of this man. "She was the last one taken away from our cell."

He continued watching her, and again she was reminded of a large bird of prey. She involuntarily shivered. "Yes, I know. Where is your mother?"

"Dead." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "She was killed when a shell exploded in our street. T-Three months ago."

"And your father? Is he alive?"

She shook her head. "He was conscripted into the army for the defense of the city last year, and...and killed in the fighting atop Montmartre. I was living in the streets with several others after my mama...after..." She took a deep breath. "I was forced out of our apartment by the landlord when she died. I had no money and I...well, I wouldn't d-do what he wanted me to..." She swallowed hard and scrubbed at her eyes. They felt gritty from lack of sleep. "My mama did what she could to keep a roof over our heads, monsieur, but I hated Chaput. He was a dirty, coarse man, and I...I-"

When Erik merely sat and said nothing, she haltingly continued. "W-With no home, a small group of us kept together for safety. It was better than n-nothing, until the day Cosette and I were separated from the rest and brought here. They accused us of supporting the Republic." Louise shook her head violently. "No such thing! My father didn't go willingly into the army. They _made_ him! And...and my mother and I only did what we could to stay alive. The same with Cosette and me. They ruin lives, these...these-"

"Yes, quite." He ignored her outburst. "Do you have any other relatives in the city?"

Stung, she replied tiredly, "No. Only my Tante Maria in Naples. My father was born there. My mama is..._was_ from Marseilles, and was a dancer herself at the old opera in the rue le Peletier, but after she met my father, she gave it up. They married and settled here thinking they could make a better life." Louise smiled bitterly. "It didn't work very well for them, did it?"

Just as he suspected. She had no one. Just like him. And just like him he heard the abject loneliness in her voice, but unlike her, he'd had years of isolation to become used to it- to embrace it. He gave up his relaxed demeanor and leaned forward. "No. It did not," he agreed, looking into her weary hazel eyes.

Her sigh was despondent. "What is to become of me now, I wonder?"

"Perhaps I can help."

"How?"

"You may stay here. With me. You will have a roof over your head- food, such as it is, and my protection. No one will harm you. Safe from Communards _and_ the Republic alike." To his credit, he felt a twinge of regret, but only a little. It didn't last long enough to change his mind.

"I have a business proposition for you."


	3. Chapter 3

"A business proposition? What can I do?"

"Consider it training, young Louise, for after all, the ballet is an acting feat. Helping the audience to escape their worthless lives and believe in the story you are conveying through dance, is what will set you apart from the others. If you can bring this off, you are guaranteed a successful career on the stage."

He was making her uneasy with his calm tone, but his eyes said something entirely different. They were eager and alive with some unnamed emotion. "What is it you want me to do?" she repeated with suspicion.

Still, he wouldn't tell her, instead asking, "What do _you_ want. Louise? I mean to say, what would you like to have right this minute?"

Her brow furrowed in thought. "Well, as good as this soup was, I would like more to eat. And...and clean clothes." Excited for the first time in weeks, she played along with him. "A hot cup of tea would be nice, and one of my mother's apple tarts." Her mouth watered at the thought of the buttery confection, almost tasting the apples and cinnamon.

He smiled, and she couldn't say that it was a pleasant sight, even if she couldn't see very much of it. It was a thin mouth, and she guessed correctly that Erik wasn't in the habit of smiling very often. And it showed.

"Are you familiar at all with fishing?"

"Fishing? Of course. One puts bait on a line and tosses it into the water."

"Excellent! Very good. Yes, exactly so."

She flushed at his praise. "You wish for us to go fishing?"

She swore she could hear amusement in his voice, although his mouth was not smiling this time- for which she was grateful.

"In a way," he replied mildly, "only _you_ will be the bait."

Her confusion was evident, and he hastened to explain. "Just hear me out, Louise, if you will." He glanced quickly at her then his eyes slid away. "We give you a good wash," he gestured at her unkempt appearance, and she dropped her eyes from his in shame, "clean you up, so to speak, and put you on the street to lure the uh, _interested _gentlemen into an alley. They will be expecting much more from you, but they will get nothing but lighter pockets. I will make certain they never touch you. You make money, I will make money. Food, such as there is in this wretched city, will be yours, and all the tea I can find for you, although your mother's tarts won't be possible, I'm afraid. And let's not forget clean dresses."

He had uttered the last as though that was all that mattered to her. Her morality traded for a clean dress. She knew there was very little compassion in the world; most human feeling seemed to be of a brutal nature anymore. Through it all though, she had managed to hold on to her innocence. "You are not honorable," she whispered.

Erik's eyes glittered dangerously, and the girl knew she had gone too far. But he merely bowed deeply, mocking her. "Indeed. Well then, let there be honor among thieves, for that is what we are. Are you familiar with a novel called Oliver Twist, by any chance?"

"No."

"No? That is good in a way, because you will be the Artful Dodger to my Fagin, and I'm quite sure you wouldn't care very much for the character. Excellent pickpockets, they were, but you will be more than that. You have noticed, I am sure, the _ladies _who occupy the less savory locales in our fair city. Those soiled doves so ardent in their pursuit of any money to be had in these trying times." One pale finger stroked his thin upper lip as he watched her closely, seeming to enjoy himself when her discovery of his meaning sank home. "Yes. I see you understand me. The _flesh _peddlers."

Louise said nothing. Couldn't. She stared at this man who seemed to feel no compunction leading her into a life of crime. Of debauchery."But why? To steal from people who have very little to begin with seems cruel." Her shock and anger were growing. "I realize that you know nothing about me except what I have told you, b-but I'm not a street walker, by any means." She raised her chin and declared, "I am not going to become one now!"

He leaped to his feet so quickly, she had no time to react. Erik placed both hands on the table in front of her, and leaned down until he was scant inches from her face. "And so you expect me to let you remain here with no compensation for your room and board? Erik does nothing for free, child! You must earn your keep."

His eyes were truly frightening, and she was hard put not to cower in fear. How she ever felt comfort looking into them, escaped her at the moment. He was a very strange man, and a treacherous one at that. One moment he seemed approachable, almost friendly, and in the next breath she was afraid of him. "Please. Just let me go. I promise never to breathe a word about you to anyone! Haven't I already proven that?"

He straightened up, and raked a hand through his dark hair. "This is different. You know where I live now. If enough people are aware of my existence here, they will hunt me down. I _can't _let you go."

"And you can't make me commit a crime either."

"Why did you say nothing to the soldiers that night?" It was said quietly, and such a complete turn around from the subject they were arguing over, she wasn't sure how to respond.

She settled for the truth. "I don't know." But that wasn't exactly true. She had seen an appeal in those yellow eyes when he stared at her from the darkness. A plea for her silence, but expecting the opposite. Much like a wretched dog waiting for the painful beating to come, but wanting mercy. She hadn't imagined it- of that she was certain.

He put his arms behind his back, and took a turn around the small room. His bony chin in the air, he stopped and studied the ceiling with great interest. Still not looking at her, he spoke casually. "What were you and your comrades doing on the streets of Paris then, if not trying to survive on what you stole- and from those very same people with whom you feel such empathy?" She opened her mouth to deny it, and he pounced, turning and regarding her with a triumphant glare.

"Do not try and convince me otherwise. Child, I watched you with my own eyes, and I see very well indeed. You and your friend from the dungeons worked a crowd quite well. I applaud your ingenuity in the face of adversity. You, Louise are a survivor. Never be ashamed of how you went about it."

She was caught and knew it. "You _spied _on me?"

He shook his head at that, his lips curling in a derisive smile. "And why would I do that? Those pursuing nefarious activities often find themselves in the same location, Louise. You and your chum were busy picking pockets, and I, the very same." His eyes glinted with humor as her jaw dropped in surprise. "Hard times makes criminals of us all," he sniffed with smug complacency, his mouth twitching at the thought of the gems he had salted away. But she was not to know that.

"But _where_ were you? I think I would have noticed you lurking about if that were true."

"I can hide myself quite well when I wish it," and she heard the bitterness in his voice. "Some have taken exception to my presence- often violently at times." He fixed a stern look on her and reiterated, "Now, once more. Were you not helping yourself to the thin pockets of the Paris citizenry?"

She rubbed tiredly at her eyes. "All right. We did steal a little to get by, but we didn't pick the pockets of the poor. Only those living well. They are easy to spot- so complacent and self-satisfied," she said with venom. " There are lots of those around. We were hungry, and had no wish to prostitute ourselves." She folded her arms across her chest and looked back at him with sullen eyes. "I still don't."

He was back to the table so rapidly, she could only blink. "What part of this conversation is taxing your brain? Didn't I already explain myself to you? You will not become a whore! You are merely the means of delivering the ah..._customer_ to the alley. I will be there waiting. You will exit the location as dewey-eyed and virginal as you were going in."

"Why?" She looked him over carefully; his long and extremely lean body, topped by a head of neatly brushed hair- what there was of it. His clothing which consisted of dark brown suit, moleskin vest and a linen shirt, were worn, but scrupulously clean. The mask- it set him apart from all others, and once again, she felt that odd tug of curiosity to see what it hid. Obviously it was something awful to behold, or he would never have deigned to wear it. But what she knew in the little time they had been acquainted, was the cunning and intelligence that shone from those golden eyes which now bore into hers.

He sighed in exasperation. "Do I really need to explain myself to you?" At her tentative nod, he threw his hands in the air and sat down again. "Very well. Then allow me to do so, you little hypocrite. I have been helping myself to the food packages the Communards have been dispensing to the populace, and selling it to marauders looking to make a profit." At her shocked gasp, he put up a hand. "Spare me, child. I don't want or need your judgmental indignation. I have been used to depending on myself all of my sorry life. No one stepped in to secure _my _comfort and well-being. On the contrary, they always managed to take it away. But I digress. The very last time I hit their storeroom, they were waiting for me."

She made a noise of distress, and he caught it. "Sympathy, Louise? After your disapproval of my morally bankrupt character? Interesting. It will be the first then, ever directed toward yours truly." He gave her another spurious bow. "The trap didn't work; they tried to contain me in the room by sheer numbers, but you know the old adage about a cornered animal, don't you? But it was a close thing. Very close indeed."

Louise was going to ask him about the man he killed, but stopped short. She would rather not remind him of his proclivity for violence. She considered him to be rambling, but kept still, waiting for him to get to the point.

"It would only be a matter of time before one of their traps succeeded. Looking the way I do is a distinct disadvantage, as I tend to stand out in a crowd. It would be a dreary end for me, and I would no doubt be degraded even further by being paraded through the streets before they hanged me- that simply won't do." He cut his eyes at her, and regarded the girl thoughtfully. "Would you think it a fitting end for me?"

She chose not to answer him, and he continued. "These are hard times, and one must do what one can to survive. That is where you come in. You do the ah, legwork, and lure them into the alley where I will be waiting. We have all of Paris in which to ply our trade. We won't attract too much attention to ourselves if we move about the city, and keep away from the theatre. No one need be the wiser. You help me- I help you. Much better, I think than what you had waiting for you oh..." he fished a battered watch out of his pocket, "...a mere six hours ago."

Louise simply sat and stared at him. What he was asking her to do was wrong. But looking at his suddenly shuttered eyes, she knew intuitively that he was not going to let her walk out of here. Perhaps he would kill her if she tried. He had already murdered the Communard soldier, and possibly the dungeon guard. He was no stranger to violence it would seem. He didn't trust her- he didn't trust anyone. Maybe if she pretended to go along with him now she could escape later. After all, what he was asking her to do was no different than what her, Cosette, and the others had done. Survive in a very hostile environment. He said he would protect her, and oddly enough she believed him. As long as she did what she was told. As it stood, her choices at the moment were very limited, and that's why she said, "Yes."

He nearly rubbed his hands in satisfaction. "Very good. We shall begin your education tomorrow." At her look of confusion, he clarified. "Merely how to comport yourself. As the street walkers do. An act, Louise. That's all it is; consider it the stage, and you will do well. It's rather late at the moment and we need you to look your best, although most of the male population in this benighted city wouldn't care all that much one way or the other, I dare say." He motioned her back to the sofa, but before she could oblige him, she asked for a glass of water, which he fetched for her. She drank thirstily, and put the glass in the sink before turning to him.

"Erik, might I have a blanket?" she asked him timidly.

He was about to say something scathing; he wasn't running a hotel, after all. She could very well find her own bedclothes. But he observed her slight form, his eyes traveling to her face, pinched with cold. She was by no means dressed for the chill underground, wearing only a thin dress that had obviously seen better days, and no coat. Silently, he left the room and returned with the folded blanket from his bed. "It would seem that I need a few items for housing a _guest_." He handed her the blanket, then snuffed the candles, plunging them into darkness. "We must conserve our light source. The city doesn't have enough of anything, including candles." Once again his eyes shone eerily in the darkness. "Sleep well, young Louise."

Thoughtfully she laid down on the sofa, and covered herself as he retired to his room for the night. She rubbed her cheek against the roughness of the blanket, glad for the warmth, and comfortable for the first time in a long while. It occurred to her that Erik might be the one sleepless in the cold of the cellars; she hadn't seen any other blankets lying about. But she was drowsy and fairly warm in this strange home with her equally strange new partner in crime. Her mind shied away from what he was forcing her to do. Just before sleep took her, she recalled the odd glint in Erik's eyes. She wasn't certain of it, she was tired and not seeing very well in the dim light, but perhaps he wasn't _too_ put out at having her here. Maybe in some small way he even liked it, but she knew him a little now; he was a prideful man, and would never admit to such a thing.

Much later, sweet music filtered into her subconscious. She was moving gracefully to the violin that was being played with such great skill. She pirouetted en plie, rising onto the balls of her feet, the lovely melody energizing her movements, the only other sounds, the rustling of her tarlaton skirt, and the slight swish of worn slippers on the hard stage floor. The tempo had begun in adagio, dream-like and magical, but the three quarter beat had quickly become allegro and the speed of her dancing feet left her breathless and ready to drop.

"Stop!" she cried. "I have to stop now!" With that last cry she came fully awake, and sat up quickly, her heart beating like a drum.

She could still hear the beautiful music, only now it was mournful and heavy- full of sorrow. Rubbing at her eyes, she listened closely to the haunting melody and slowly relaxed. Tucking the blanket around herself, she closed her eyes, and slept once more as the violin played on.

* * *

"You _will _wear this mademoiselle, even if I have to force you into it myself. You merely look like a filthy child at the moment; nothing to tempt a man into an alley. Besides, I nearly had a shiv slipped between my ribs by the irate owner of the damned thing!"

Louise stood rosy faced with hands on hips, looking at the very low cut bodice trimmed in black lace he was holding out to her. She well knew where he got the dress. She corrected herself- _stole _it. It was a garment meant to entice and inflame the male senses, and he had lifted it from a brothel somewhere. A common street walker, especially in these dangerous times, wouldn't have the funds to purchase something so elaborate and provocative. Most women left widowed or destitute by the war, would find themselves looking for any means to feed children or themselves. Not much was open to them; selling their bodies required no skill whatsoever and no fancy clothes; just a relatively quiet place to perform their duties with a customer, and hopefully they would get paid for their troubles. All too often though, it led to something else; a brutal beating or death- quite often the customer took his pleasure and refused to pay for it.

Modesty forbade her to wear it, but Erik had other plans, and impatiently he waved a skeletal hand in her direction. "Put it on, Louise. You can wear a shawl over the blasted thing for all I care, but wear it, you will." She knew by his stance, he was not budging on this. His head was lowered and shoulders pulled forward in that aggressive way he had.

"Very well," she sniffed, and reached for the hated dress. She would have loved to wipe the nasty smirk from his mouth with a resounding slap to the face. If she were brave enough. Louise entered the bathing room and hastily undressed. Not wanting the feel of her dirty chemise and petticoat against her skin any longer, she hastily scrubbed her underthings, and with no other place to leave them, draped the sodden garments over the edge of the tub to dry, and slipped into her new dress. "At least this one is cleaner." she muttered to herself, noting how it gaped in the front; she didn't have enough chest to fill it out. Dismally, she spent the next five minutes fighting with the tiny buttons up the back of the bodice. As she worked, twisting and turning, one way then another, she thought about the last two days with her sometimes intractable _host_.

Louise had discovered one thing about Erik. He wasn't just one man- he was several. All of them crowded inside that very spare body. She had met the risk taker that night in the alley. That man seemed to be one step ahead of those trying to track him down. Then there was the heroic Erik; feeling the urge, no matter how small, to return a good deed. She was fairly certain he had not felt that way very often, if ever. But the one that she knew the least about, was the very one that confused her the most. The man who hungered for what others never gave a second thought. Friendship. Not that he actively sought it out with her. On the contrary. He was often taciturn and withdrawn, sometimes so abrupt with her, it bordered on surliness, but then he would perform some small kindness for her, and the veil was pulled aside for a moment.

He had given her the only blanket in the house, and she was grateful, although she should have felt guilty. But after being cold for so long, grateful was the only emotion she could summon. Erik also kept her fed, which was no small feat in the starving city. Only yesterday he had entered the house with two fat sausages to cook. She was curious as to where he had procured them, but as usual with the masked man, he refused to say. Her curiosity angered him.

"You should be glad of the food, you thankless girl! Why must you always interrogate me when I return? Did you eat so very well on the street then?" he sneered. "Are you aware of what some of the restaurants happen to be offering their patrons? Are you? The animals from the zoo are making their way around the city, but not under their own power, Louise."

His masked face was as usual impossible for her to read, but those amber eyes of his regarded her with cold amusement. "Oh no, Louise. Not under their own power. They are served to the diners as the main course, and recently elephant was on Maxine's menu."

She refused to be badgered in this way. "In a city where food is scarce, yes, I _am_ curious." Louise put both hands out palms up, seeking to calm his rising ire. "I am grateful to you, Erik. F-For everything."

Slightly mollified, he proceeded to fry the sausages, and even permitted Louise to fix them a rare cup of tea. Yes, curious man in more ways than one.

Finished with the buttons on her dress, she raised a hand to her face and felt the hollows in her cheeks, stroking with one finger, the fragile bones of a growing girl not getting enough to eat. Her hand then traveled upward to the snarled mass of dull brown hair atop her head, and she cringed. It would take forever to get the tangles out. Perhaps Erik had a comb or brush, and with that thought in mind, she left the bathing room and went searching for him.

She approached the one door she had never tried. She opened it hesitantly and peeked into an empty room with stone walls and floor, and not one stick of furniture to declare it a room instead of merely a cave, but her curiosity was aroused when she spied a slim crack of light in the opposite wall. Tiptoeing across the room, she heard the sound of a voice, then a harsh laugh. There was light beyond, but it held a queerness to it, seeming to multiply and repeat itself. Nervously, she crept closer. He had lashed out at her only yesterday for asking him about the musical notes flowing like a black river across the top of the wall. "None of your business," he had replied, and the look in his eyes boded ill for her if she persisted in this.

"Erik?" she called softly. The one sided conversation continued, and she called to him again, only louder this time.

Just before she reached the slight opening, which beckoned to her with a strange allure, he shot through it, and one more glance revealed a blank wall. _How...?_ She was sure there was a room beyond, but her curiosity shriveled away to nothing, when she saw the flash of anger in his eyes. "What do you want?" he said harshly. "You have a decidedly unhealthy habit of going where you haven't been invited. It could get you in-"

The words dried up in his mouth. He took in the red dress, his eyes making the journey without any effort on his part. She was thin, and there were hollows and sharp angles beneath her jaw where more padding should have softened and filled her out. But the bare skin of her decollete, and the short skirt showing off long coltish legs, gave him pause.

"She is just a child," he muttered. "Only a child," but his very male reaction to that tantalizing glimpse of skin, was trying to convince him otherwise. He licked his lips.

"Erik?" She didn't care at all for the way he was staring at her.

He dragged his gaze from the front of her dress where the bodice gaped open and one small breast had been bared to his view without her knowledge. Feeling shame and an odd yearning, he hastily stepped back from her and into the wall, his head smacking painfully against the unforgiving stone. "Go take that off," he said harshly, pointing to the dress as he rubbed the back of his head. His eyes refused to meet hers, while a muscle worked furiously in his jaw.

She glanced down open mouthed at the bodice, and hurriedly pulled the front together with both hands, her cheeks aflame. "I know it's not very flattering, b-but you said...you, you said..."

"Take it _off,_" he snarled, his long fingers curling into fists as he stalked from the room.

"But you were the one insisting I put it _on,_" Louise muttered under her breath, staring daggers at his thin back as he sped from the room as though his feet were on fire.

She followed behind him slowly and went to the bathing room to change back into her old clothing. With a twinge of regret, she put her dirty dress back on, and decided to keep as quiet as possible while he was in such a peculiar mood, which on further examination, wasn't so very strange after all- for Erik. But she didn't have to worry about his bad humor, for he was gone from the house when she entered the main room. She sighed and sat down on the sofa to wait for him, curling her legs beneath her, trying to warm icy toes. She always became despondent when her feet were cold, and it was particularly so this morning.

After a while, still nervous about his anger, she sprang up and busied herself trying to take out the snarls in her matted hair. It was already much shorter than the mass which used to fall nearly to her waist, but regrettably, she had been forced to shorten it, just to keep it relatively cleaner without benefit of regular washing. She had watched others carefully while on the streets; some had all manner of vermin crawling through their clothes and hair. Most at first, were horrified when they discovered the little pests, the women especially, but being burdened with a need much greater than bugs, it soon led to apathy. It had pained her to do it, but lice and any other freeloaders were kept from taking up a home at her expense. She hitched a breath in misery, wishing with all her heart she was back with her mother in their shoddy apartment, and not living with this man and his odd humors. She cursed when a particularly sharp tug hurt.

"My my, Louise. Wherever did you learn such language?" She jumped when she heard him speak, and whirled around in dismay. The masked man stood there, his soft voice alive with amusement, a brown dress slung over one arm, and a mother-of-pearl brush in his hand. He held it out to her. "This might help with that," and he gestured to her hair.

She took it eagerly from him. "It's just the thing. T-Thank you!" She glanced at him before turning away, to begin working the brush through her hair. A comb would have been more helpful, but anything was better than her fingers. His previous fit of temper was gone, and she was glad of it.

He felt awkward, her delight in the brush pleased him, and he wasn't sure why this was so. He covered it by holding the plain wool dress out as well. "You can't tempt men into the alley looking like a guttersnipe, now, can you?"

What was once gratitude at his gift, turned into something else. With a mixture of embarrassment and rancor she answered him, "I wouldn't know."

He knew from her stiff posture and refusal to look at him, that it had been the wrong thing to say. But what did it matter to him? "Very well then. Change your dress and do something with your hair, then we'll discuss how we are going to proceed. Tomorrow night should be soon enough, if you are amenable. I'm quite sure you have seen street walkers at work, no?" He looked at her for agreement, but Louise wouldn't meet his eyes. "Well?" Erik said sharply.

"Yes," she replied faintly, mortified to think she would be attempting to sell herself.

And by the following evening- she was doing exactly that.


	4. Chapter 4

"Remember what I told you. Do _not_ touch the man in any way. Simply convey your wish to do business with him by the tone of your voice. By the appeal of your, ah- noticeable charms."

As he said this, he glanced skeptically at her slight form, and sighed. Built more like a boy than anything else. Hard on the heels of that thought, the image of her small breast arose before his eyes. His voice harsher than he wished, he imparted a warning to the girl, "Do not even consider the notion of simply walking away. You will not get far if that's what you're contemplating. Erik will find you. Have no doubts on that score, young Louise."

There it was again, she thought. That odd quirk of his. Speaking in the third person as though he were talking about someone else. Louise nervously smoothed her hands down her skirt, saying nothing. The brown wool dress was much warmer than her old one, and the bone rattling chill was lessened somewhat. She wrapped thin arms around herself and walked beside her dark mentor, sending up a quick prayer that her mother would not be a witness to what she was about to do.

"It's only pretend, mama," she whispered, glancing at the night sky. "I am still a good girl. I am-"

"Never doubt it, child. You are merely beyond your capacity to choose anything else at the moment. Allow me to be bad _for _you. I am well versed at it."

She stared up at him, saying nothing. She should have known he would hear her. He always did.

They parted company on the rue D'antin, Erik melting into the early evening shadows, as she slowly approached the man he had pointed out to her. He was well dressed for a city that had practically nothing, and by the look of him well fed. Elephant, perhaps? She shivered and tried to remember to sway her hips and look alluring; hard to do when one is cold and frightened. The middle-aged man stared at her, then away. He was standing on the street corner, and as she walked toward him, he spared another glance her way.

She took a deep breath. "Company, monsieur? It is a cold night, and two will make it much warmer." She had his complete attention now as he looked her over carefully. Despite the quaver in her voice, she looked him in the eye. "One franc. Surely it will be worth that to you?"

"You're naught but a babe," he said as he looked her up and down. "Things have become desperate in the city to have a child peddling herself," not impressed with what she was trying to sell, "though it's a right good thing I prefer 'em that way." He swept a hand out in front of them in a crude parody of respect. "After you, little love."

Louise couldn't believe it had been this easy, and on timorous feet, led the man to the alley Erik had directed her to. She quickened her steps as the man grew closer to her; she could hear his heavy breathing, and cringed that she was the reason for it. She led him to the darkest corner, the smell of urine and rot wrinkling her nose. She stopped and turned, keeping her distance from him.

"Price, m-my friend. One franc. Agreed?"

He grinned, showing a haphazard row of crooked teeth. "Certainly, little dove, certainly." He reached for the girl, having no intention of giving her one centime for her services. His anticipation grew, along with his lust, but before he could unbutton his trousers, he let out a bleat of dismay and fell over, clawing with desperate fingers at his neck. Seconds later, he was slumped on the filthy cobbles.

"Mon Dieu! Is he dead?"

Erik shook his head, going quickly to one knee. "Merely unconscious," as he went through the man's pockets. He removed a number of coins, tossing her one. "For your services." He pocketed the rest, and unceremoniously rolled the man into a corner then straightened up. "Come along, child. The night is young."

"How much did he have? It looked like quite a bit and I only get one franc?" she said indignantly. After all, she was taking the most risk and getting the least out of it. The sight of her mother's disapproving face which had been with her all along, had vanished like smoke in the wind. This was strictly business now.

"I have taken this month's room and board out of your share. Didn't we discuss this already?" His glowing eyes had narrowed, and settled on her inquiringly.

"Charging me for something I have no control over, it would seem," she retorted.

He waved a hand languidly. "You have a place to stay, ungrateful wench! Or did you prefer living on the streets so well?" Erik took her by the elbow, and propelled her forward. "Enough of this. Come along. The night doesn't await your pleasure."

Feeling as though he were taking advantage of her- _knowing _he was, she resentfully picked her way out of the alley and headed up the street to the next area he had chosen- the rue Poinsot. Before she left the alley, he had whispered to her in silky tones, "Carefully, Louise. I will be watching."

* * *

She walked back to the opera house, her hand closed over a small fortune. To her anyway. Twice more she had lured men into an alley, only to have her masked companion intercept them. One moment she was facing a stranger expecting her to hike up her skirts and bend over, when Erik was suddenly there incapacitating him before he could lay a hand, or some other equally unsavory appendage on her. Just as he promised. She wasn't sure how he accomplished it- for now, she was only glad that he did. Her shame and hesitancy had dissipated as the night wore on, and jingling the coins in her hand, she ruthlessly shoved aside any lingering guilt.

To anyone observing the young girl, she appeared to be alone, but Louise knew differently. Her companion (jailer) wasn't far away. For the first time since her mother died, she felt safe on the streets of Paris. She realized the rest of the city was not, with Erik gliding across the landscape. Every once in a while she turned, catching the telltale gleam of golden eyes behind her, and unconsciously quickened her pace.

No one bothered her as the opera house loomed above her in the chilly darkness. Before she had taken many more steps, his voice was speaking softly in her ear. The first time he had done that, she was startled to find him nowhere in sight. Understanding the man, was turning out to be a challenge.

"Follow me and I'll soon have you safely asleep for the remainder of this night. We did well." He cocked his head at her in the dim light of the sickle moon. "_You _did well."

She yawned hugely, strangely pleased at his words, and followed him down into the depths of the cellars, stopping every so often to listen for others moving about on their questionable business. Once they were inside the house beside the lake, she relaxed a bit. It was curious, but she was beginning to think of this place as her home. She wasn't teasing herself into considering Erik to be benevolent, but at the moment, he was the lesser of evils. It _was _better to have a roof over her head and protection from the dangers of a world gone mad. Nevertheless, she felt her unease creeping back in. _But who will protect me from Erik?_

* * *

The next two weeks passed much the same with the masked man pointing out a likely victim, and Louise taking him into a nearby alley or cul de sac to set up the robbery. They had acquired all sorts of spoils from her unwitting customers_, _which included purses, rings, watches and fobs, with one in particular catching Erik's eye. He showed it to her when they returned home, just before he put it away for keeps. It was a gold medallion fob, with an engraving of the scales of justice. With a deep chuckle, he slipped it into his pocket.

"Imagine if you will. A pair of thieves performing their criminal activities with the scales of Lady Justice going along for the ride. That's rich, wouldn't you say? I thought that last mark was acting peculiar. A magistrate, no doubt, and one a little uncomfortable with his illicit foray into the seamy side of Paris." He glanced at her in amusement. "Almost nailed by an officer of the court, Louise. One meets all sorts of people in back streets."

A picture of a blonde haired beauty fascinated Erik. It had resided in a leather purse holding a goodly number of francs, and because the take was so large, he permitted Louise to return home right after. He would stare at it for moments at a time, intrigued by the woman's delicate features, her milk and rose complexion- her perfect nose. Louise thought him silly to show such an interest in a woman who was a complete stranger, and had the temerity to tell him so.

"It's only a picture and has no value." She held out several coins to show him. "Not like these. She's not even that pretty," she muttered when he didn't look up at her.

"You're wrong about that. Beauty and perfection have their own value." he said in a whisper, still studying the unknown woman. "Would that I had even a little of it for myself," He held the photograph up for her inspection. Only look at her, Louise. Isn't she exquisite? A fair haired angel, she is."

"So much of an angel, her husband had to seek me out in an alley," she scoffed.

"Angels don't have to sully themselves with earthly pursuits. Their beauty and goodness are all that's required."

She rolled her eyes dramatically at this bit of nonsense and shrugged. "Your skill with the violin is beautiful, and has far more value than that simpering smile of _hers,_" she rejoined. "It won't fade someday and turn old like people do. Notes and melodies are always with us."

He finally looked up at her, and she caught a flash of warmth from those yellow eyes before they hardened. "Taking up philosophizing now, are we?" He slipped the picture into his pocket and stood up. "You really should keep your observations to yourself. I have no wish to hear them," and he grabbed his hat and left her.

They ranged far across the city, never staying in one place, and his plan was going along smoothly until the night everything went horribly wrong.

True to his word, they were eating every day; at least she was- Erik never seemed to require all that much, and left the lion's share for her. Louise had tea twice a day; once in the morning, and a welcome cup when they returned from the streets. She now had two dresses to choose from, both warm wool, and the masked man had presented her with a shawl only two nights before. It was new, having never been worn, and in the prettiest colors of purple, from the deepest wine to the palest lavender, and every shade in between. She loved it so, and eagerly draped it around her shoulders, delighting in the luxurious warmth and feel of it. Where he came by it, she didn't ask, but she was touched by his thoughtfulness all the same.

"Erik! It's so pretty." She rubbed her cheek against its soft folds, and shyly looked up at him. "Thank you. It's just what I needed."

He could only nod his head, her gratitude rendering him mute. No one had ever thanked him before. He noticed for the first time that her face had lost some of its gauntness, and there was more color in her cheeks. Her hair was cleaner now, but the hack job she had performed on it left her locks choppy and uneven, giving her the appearance of a ragtag waif. It didn't quite reach her shoulders and was still a dull brown.

He snorted and patted his coat pocket where the picture of the blonde lady resided. Louise would never be a Helen of Troy, her beauty launching a thousand ships. Beauty was the one thing Erik craved, for he would never have any for himself, and he couldn't help but admire those that did. But for all that, she did possess _some_ charm- the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when something amused her, gave him a tiny jolt of pleasure, and the way her thin face lit up with joy at some small favor, made him want to please her more often.

What she saw as he fixed his gaze on her was unsettling; his eyes studying her in that often soulless way they had, as though his humanity was tightly locked away somewhere, and she hurriedly began talking about something else. She didn't care at all for the way he sometimes stared at her- almost as if she were a tasty meal and he was anticipating the first juicy bite.

She had washed after their return from the streets, tired physically, but mentally as well. That night as usual, she enticed the man into an alley and waited for Erik to administer the coup de gras. She had become better at what he required her to do, and felt very little shame anymore. Parisians were dying everyday of hunger and disease. The bombardments by the Prussian army had finally stopped, but the purging of its citizenry by both sides continued. The fact that she remained relatively safe because of her strange companion, only served to make her grateful for what she had, and she refused to lose sleep over it. Once life returned to normal, then she would ask forgiveness of the Holy Father.

Their victim that evening, had grabbed her arm and pulled her closer, intent on some rough groping. Frightened, she attempted to get away from him, but he held on to her. Just as she readied herself to scream, Erik was suddenly there, and as usual, choked the man into unconsciousness with the lasso he had concealed up his sleeve.

The man lay there between them, as her companion went through his pockets for money. Louise watched him open mouthed, her heart still pounding from fright. "That was a little too close!" she exclaimed, anger beginning to replace the fear.

He continued his task, never sparing her a glance. "You are unharmed. Calm yourself," he said, dismissing her concerns out of hand.

She was fuming by now. "I don't need calming, Erik. The man _touched _me. Where were you?"

"Close by, Louise. I repeat- calm yourself. You are making much out of nothing."

He straightened to his full height and finally looked at her, surreptitiously patting the bottle of wine deep in the pocket of his coat. He had made a short side trip into a well known wine cellar he had frequented before the war. What wine still remained for sale was at an exorbitant amount and he would not pay it. He was more than adept at stealing, and considered what the proprietor charged for one bottle of Merlot as simply another form of thievery; Erik was merely the first to profit. While the girl talked with their next victim, he had manipulated the lock on the door, and slipped inside the darkened shop, perusing it quickly. In record time, he snatched a few bottles of the Tokay, his favorite, and was back in the alley to take care of business. It had been months since he drank a decent wine, and he had need for its dulling effects. She would not make him feel guilty for something so trivial.

Their walk back to the opera house that night was quiet, although Erik was never very talkative. Louise was usually the one carrying the conversation, while the masked man merely grunted in reply, but he enjoyed the sound of her voice, having been accustomed for far too long to the silence of his own thoughts. And once his mind became shrill with his cursed memories, her conversation had the power to vanquish them for a time. But she was angry with him and refused to say anything at all. The silent treatment continued into the next day, and he had finally had enough.

They were having a meal of boiled oats and stale bread. Compared to what the majority of Paris was eating, it was a veritable feast. Louise was drinking a cup of tea, while Erik drank his bottle of wine. All of it. Normally he savored it, rolling it around in his mouth and relishing each sip. Because of her continued silence throughout the day, he could feel his ire rising along with the alcohol in his bloodstream. He gulped down the contents of his cup and refilled it again. Louise eyed the half empty bottle with misgiving.

"Do you intend to drink the entire bottle in one sitting? At least eat something."

He leaned back negligently, crossing his long legs and regarded her with amusement. "Louise is angry with me. What to do?" He sighed theatrically, and shook his head in mock regret. Sipping from the cup, he wiped his mouth with the back of one pale hand. "You are not very good company tonight, child. Do not presume to tell me how to act," and to prove his point, he again downed the entirety of the cup, watching her through slitted eyes. He examined her closely, noting the gradual filling out of her bodice, his gaze then climbing to the smooth column of her throat. He swallowed hard and upended the rest of the bottle into his cup.

Louise abruptly stood and began clearing the table. "You won't be much use to me if you can't stand up, Erik. You drank the entire bottle. I never took you for a drunkard. Really, what-"

She never got to finish before quick as a snake he was on his feet, and had grasped her arm painfully. "Drunkard? What gives you the right for name calling, you little hoyden?" he sneered. And what if Erik wishes to have a glass of wine- or two? It is what civilized humans do of an evening, Louise." He pulled her closer to him and searched her face. "Ah, I see. I'm not what you consider _civilized, _am I? I can see it in your eyes. Not good enough for you, I dare say. Good enough to give you a home, and provide you with food, but not good enough for much else."

She struggled against him and the stink of alcohol fumes which enveloped him as though flowing from every pore, and once more her fear of Erik rose to the fore. She could have pointed out to him that she had all along been a prisoner of his; there simply because he wouldn't let her go. But wisely she kept silent, not wishing to fuel his anger.

"Well? What do you have to say now?"

"You're hurting me," she said quietly, forcing herself to remain calm.

He stared down at her, feeling her trembling, and loosened his hold. He gave her a little push and stepped back. "Get ready. We leave soon."

She rubbed her sore arm where his bony fingers had dug into her flesh, and prepared herself for their evening, all the while keeping one eye on him.

* * *

He led her to the rue Leclerc that night, going further and further from the opera house. She had always felt safe with Erik trailing behind, but tonight he was laboring to keep up with her, all due to his greediness downing an entire bottle of wine in one sitting. His usually lithe movements were absent, instead walking stiff legged as though he needed to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Louise glanced around from time to time, seeing furtive movements in the darkness, and sensing many eyes on her. They were never alone in their illicit activities; there were a host of others abroad every night with the same thing in mind as they preyed on those foolish enough to be on the streets after dark. She was feeling uneasy about the night's business, and when the masked man spoke softly in her ear, she was greatly relieved.

"Separate them, Louise. Two for the price of one. Take care of them both and we can go home after this." He nodded toward two men standing near a fire fitfully burning in a metal barrel, and tugged his cap lower down on his forehead. He had carefully studied them, judging them mostly harmless, and sensing full pockets.

She didn't care for the idea of approaching two men at once, even with Erik waiting for them in the alley. Her unease continued to grow. "Maybe we should keep looking."

"Nonsense. It will be fine," and he pointed to the two men again. "Go on. Do as I say."

His eyes bloodshot and relentless, she sighed heavily and walked toward the men, as one of them dropped another stick of wood in the barrel. A whoosh of sparks rose up, snapping and crackling as the hungry flames licked eagerly at the new fuel. She took a deep breath. "May I join you?" she called, as she sidled up to them. "I need to warm up a little." As one, they turned at the sound of the girl's voice.

"Ah, jeaune fille! Come, come. Join us, and you can whisper in my ear what needs warmed the most." The taller of the two men winked at her, his mouth split in a gloating smirk, and held an arm out to her as she approached them. Louise stopped short.

"Perhaps a little activity right now to heat the blood, would be better- and so much nicer. Over there," she whispered, and fluttered her lashes at him as she indicated the alley, its maw gaping dark and unwelcoming. "One tiny franc and I will be all yours." She glanced over at the other man ogling her, his piggish eyes undressing her. "One at a time, of course," she laughed, her amusement feigned, the only real emotion present, anxiety.

"One franc, it is. And a bargain at that. Allow me to be the first then, ma mie," and he glanced quickly at the other man, who nodded slightly.

"After you," she simpered, and followed behind him, her steps beginning to slow as they grew closer to the alley. Unbeknownst to Louise, the other man followed them in.

* * *

Erik watched her as she approached the two men, and he stepped out of the shadows to take up position in the alley. He still felt resentment at her words from earlier in the evening. Uncalled for, and definitely unwelcome; his head ached from all the wine he had consumed, but he wasn't a drunkard by any means. His steps faltered as he paused against the wall of a nearby building and closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths as he tried to clear his head. Feeling nauseated, he bent over, his hands gripping tightly to his thighs, and concentrated on forcing the contents of his stomach back where they belonged. He had only been there a minute or so when he heard her screams.

His heart gave a nasty jolt, and he stumbled as he took his first step, then broke into a run, a feeling of dread climbing into his throat and lodging there. He noted the absence of both men and his fear increased. Calling himself every vile name he knew, he raced to the alley, murder in his heart and self-loathing spurring him onward.

* * *

Louise stepped into the alley behind the man, her eyes scanning the fetid space for signs of Erik. She didn't see him anywhere, but that in itself meant nothing. Often, she would look up in surprise to see him standing there. The man turned to her and his teeth gleamed in the dark. "Come, little flower. Let's see your charms," and he yanked her pretty shawl away, sliding his fingers into the neck of her dress, and brutally tearing it down the front, baring her to the waist. The soft pattering of the tiny buttons could be heard as they tore free from the bodice and fell about them. He was on her in seconds, forcing her violently to the slick and filthy ground as he fumbled with his trousers.

She screamed in terror, and he backhanded her across the face, splitting her lip, her mouth filling with blood. She thrashed in panic, fighting her attacker as he ground his hips into her, his rancid breath fanning her cheek. To her horror, the other man had joined them and was now pulling her arms roughly above her head. She was slapped again, and a gleaming knife appeared in the first man's hand.

"Stop fighting, you little hell cat, or I'll cut you! I swear I will."

She became still at his words, but when she felt her dress being ripped away and her legs exposed to the cool night air, she fought even harder. She screamed again when her whole world became nothing but excruciating pain, and the edges of her consciousness began to slip away. She never saw the man on top of her dragged backward- never heard the awful sound of his neck snapping. His friend picked up the knife dropped from the dead man's hand, and stumbled away from the relentless force now intently stalking him.

He held the glittering knife out in front of him, waist high, and made a few sharp jabs with it. "Come on then, you bastard! Come and get a bellyful of this!" the man cried, the knife wobbling in his fist as he began moving backward.

The creature with red eyes growled, and before the other man could blink, was directly in front of him, grasping the hand holding the knife. With hideous strength, Erik bent the man's wrist back, until tendons popped and bones cracked, a howl of agony rending the cool night air. He forced the wicked blade around until it was pointing at the other man's stomach, and plunged it deeply into his gut, twisting it violently again and again, grunting with the effort, then shoved the lifeless body away from him. "Like that?" he panted, hatred boiling out of him- for them and himself.

Swiftly, he knelt down and surveyed the girl's injuries. "Louise? Forgive me. _Forgive me_...I'm so sorry...so very sorry-" He mindlessly repeated it over and over, hoping on some level she heard him. Completely sober now, he fished his clean handkerchief out of his jacket and wadded it to the stab wound in her shoulder with trembling fingers. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it around her, pulling it close. With gentle hands, he lifted the unconscious girl, cradling her to his narrow chest, and without a single glance backward at the violence he had wrought, carried her urgently back to the theatre.


	5. Chapter 5

He laid the girl gently on his bed, and swiftly gathered the materials he would need to treat her, then carefully peeled back her torn bodice and eased it from her wounded shoulder. He sucked in a harsh breath at the sight of her exposed chest, the tender skin with a faint tracery of blue veins just below the pearly flesh, a startling snow white against the blood still leaking from the stab wound. He took several deep breaths as he tried valiantly to tear his gaze away from the small breast which had popped into his view. The very same one which had peeped so enticingly at him when she wore the whore's dress.

"Hello, my adorable young friend. We meet again," he whispered hoarsely, his prominent Adam's apple nervously bobbing up and down as he swallowed hard. Louise was unmoving, though the steady rise and fall of her chest proved she was merely unconscious. Out cold. She couldn't stop him if he were to... "Get thee behind me, Satan. It is much safer there," he rasped.

His hand itched to stroke that delectable little mound.

His breathing escalated in excitement, captivated by the sight before him, his hand making its own inexorable movement forward, and was nearly to its destination, when a thin trickle of fresh blood forced him back to sanity. He made a sound deep in his throat, horrified at what he was doing and abruptly withdrew, tugging her ragged bodice back over that tempting bit of female anatomy. Feeling like the worst kind of depraved beast, he was filled with a self-loathing so great he felt as though he would choke on it, and ground his teeth together until his jaws ached. He sucked in a deep breath, determined to put the moment behind him, but he would trot the memory out many times throughout the years- remembering that sweet bit of flesh, so very tempting to a starving man. It was a cherished recollection at a time when there were precious few. Very soon though, he was engrossed in the task at hand, cleaning the gash in her shoulder. Carefully he placed eleven tiny stitches in her skin to close the wound.

She began to stir as he took the last two and hurriedly finished, tucking the blanket around her before standing up and fetching the tincture he always kept on hand. He watched her silently for a moment. Small and vulnerable. She looked so much like the child she actually was, he again felt a rare twinge of shame for forcing her into thievery and putting her at risk. He sat down beside his bed and leaned over her.

She fought the weight holding her down, the pain forcing a groan past her lips. The agony climbed higher, its sharp teeth biting into her flesh, giving her no respite. Louise started to cry, wishing for nothing more than the surcease of torment as she tossed and turned finding no comfort anywhere. A cup was held to her mouth and a low voice coaxed her to swallow its contents, the taste vile, even masked as it was by something sweet. She fought weakly to escape those confining hands, which forced her to drink, but his will was greater than hers and soon the cup was empty.

A cool hand settled on her forehead and she flinched from the chill of it. She heard a lilting voice singing softly, the very beauty of it forcing more tears from her. Gradually she relaxed back onto the pillow feeling exhausted, but the pain had eased somewhat as the lovely voice sang on. A frown marred her brow as she tried to remember where she had heard it before.

"It's so beautiful," she whispered. "So very beautiful." It finally occurred to her that the extraordinary voice she listened to now was the archangel Gabriel. She was dead and God's angel was with her, giving her comfort- she felt no sadness, only peace from the liquid tones surrounding her. She would see her mother and father again.

Suddenly she thought of Erik- he had abandoned her to the two men in the alley. They attacked her, and _he_ forgot his promise to keep her safe. "You killed me." The words were no sooner spoken, she opened her eyes to slits, his amber irises swimming into her view, soft and filled with concern. She could almost believe they held tenderness for her as well. Her eyes refused to remain open and drifted closed, the lashes appearing sooty against her pale cheeks. Erik was here?

"Are you dead too?" The magnificent voice sputtered to a halt, and the gentle hand moved to her cheek. Gratefully she leaned into it, finding comfort in that icy touch.

"You're not dead, child. Never think that. Hurt, but nowhere near fatally. Open your eyes, Louise."

He remained bent over her as she lay on his bed fighting to return to full consciousness. Her lashes fluttered, and he willed her to open them. Her small hand was swallowed in his as he stared at her face drawn with pain. His fault for allowing this to happen. He had let her down in the worst way possible, and he would be surprised if she didn't hate him now. Louise was nearly raped and murdered; if he had been any slower, she would have been. He had no excuse for his lapse in judgment; protecting the girl from the very people they were duping, had been his obligation to her and he had failed miserably at it.

The nightmares that plagued him for years had begun again, and he tried shutting them out with alcohol. Deadening his memories with wine had been his only goal. The girl had faded from his thoughts as the night wore on, leaving her alone and vulnerable to the men in the alley. He had sought to numb his emotions with the Tokay, and Louise paid for the privilege. For Erik, there would always come a time when he needed to forget for a while just to remain relatively sane. The rosy hours. Oh, yes. Those especially.

But he would remember his place from now on, and do what he had promised her from the beginning, instead of leaving her to the savage treatment of brutish louts like the ones he left dead behind him. She had bled copiously, and he had run through the blighted streets with his burden, imploring the unconscious girl to forgive him.

He set the cup on the floor and straightened up to find her staring at him owl eyed. "What was _that_?" she grimaced, wincing from the pain in her cut lip, her eyes large in a wan face. Her cheek and jaw were a bruised purple.

"It's something I learned to make years ago. It has herbs I've found work very well in most cases. Shepherd's purse for one. It controls excessive bleeding. Valerian root is another I use quite often- for pain." His lips curved in a rare smile. "Tastes nasty, doesn't it?"

She nodded tiredly and looked about her. "Why am I in your bed?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"Was that you I heard singing?" She put a finger lightly to her swollen lip and winced at the pain. "You sounded like an angel."

Erik nodded and looked away. _Angel, indeed._ "Louise-" He stared morosely at the floor, uncomfortable with admitting he was wrong. "Louise, I should never have left you alone like that. I have no excuse." He forced himself to meet her eyes. "I sometimes have trouble sleeping; it's actually rare for me to sleep longer than a few hours, but I-"

"It's because of the nightmares, isn't it?" she said quietly.

He looked at her in surprise. "Yes. How-?"

"I hear you from time to time- you cry out in your sleep. I have bad dreams too. One in particular that I-" She stopped, not wishing to tell him about her recurring nightmare. "Those m-men... Are they...dead?" Louise swallowed hard, not certain what she wanted the answer to be.

He gave her the truth, mortified that she had heard him in the throes of his terrifying dreams. "Yes."

"Oh."

"Do not lose sleep over those who cared nothing for you. They would have killed you and not given it a second thought."

She turned her head away and stared at the Dies Irae high on the wall. "You weren't there," she said in a low voice. "You promised they would never touch me. You _promised,_" she whispered, her eyes welling with tears. "You broke your word."

He shook his head. "Heap your abuse on my head, child. I deserve it, but have a care," he warned. "I may be a monster in your eyes, but I'm not quite the same as they. I do have some constraints." He sighed deeply and stood up to leave. "Can you manage a cup of tea? I'll fix it for you. In the meantime, rest a while."

"Erik?"

"Yes?" He stiffened his spine, waiting for more of her well earned scorn.

"I don't think you're a monster," she said softly and closed her eyes.

He hesitated momentarily, "Oh, but I am, Louise. Most assuredly I am," he murmured, and left the room to get her tea.

* * *

She spent a few very uncomfortable days in bed, but because she was young and healthy, by her third day she was well enough to get up. She had become restless and quarrelsome, lashing out at him for no better reason than his refusal to let her get out of bed. He could sympathize, for he was never one to remain still for very long unless he was reading or writing music.

She was surprised that Erik complained very little during his care of her. Occasionally she caught him muttering darkly to himself and sighing in annoyance, but his hands were always gentle when he examined her wound and changed the dressing. He even provided her with one of his shirts to cover herself with while she convalesced. He was adamant that she keep everything well hidden while he tended to her wound, and she was touched by his modesty on her behalf. Her second day in bed, Erik made a trip above for provisions. Louise lay there, her shoulder throbbing; he had changed the bandage before he left, studying his stitch work and proclaiming the wound to be healing nicely.

She was grateful for his solicitude, but she wasn't sure if she would ever trust him again. She snorted. It was because of him that she was in this predicament in the first place. Truth be told, Erik was too leaky a vessel to put her faith in; his moods could run the gamut in just one day, but she would give the devil his due. He was trying his best to make it up to her, and she admitted one thing about him- he was a very capable man when he wished to be.

She had been dozing when he returned with some food, candles, and a newspaper. After he brought Louise some dinner, he sat and read aloud from the republican paper, Le Rappel, giving her the news of the ongoing hostilities- in particular the destruction of the Vendome Column honoring the victories of Napolean at the battle of Austerlitz.

"On April sixteenth, they toppled it, Louise- all one hundred forty-four feet of it." He shook his head. "You should have seen it. It's in three pieces and an ignoble end for the emperor if I ever saw one- he looked like any other body lying haphazardly in the street."

"I don't understand. What was the purpose in it?"

"Because they can, child. That's reason enough for their ilk." He sighed, and ran a hand through his sparse hair. "I fear it will only get uglier as time goes on. Neither side is budging on these reprisals and more die every day. I even came across barrels of gunpowder being carried to an area just below where we now sit."

He put up a hand at her look of fear. "It's all right. We no longer have to worry about the Prussians at least. They have withdrawn from the bloated carcass of this city, and the shelling thankfully has ended. We have that much at least, so don't worry," though secretly he did. He had seen for himself barrel upon barrel carried into the chamber- enough to destroy the opera house and a good chunk of Paris besides.

Once she was done eating, he cleared away the plate and sat back down on the kitchen chair, pulling it closer to the bed. Louise watched him expectantly. Gruffly, he cleared his throat. "Louise, about your shawl-"

"You didn't find it, did you?" she huffed irritably, mourning the beautiful bit of warmth she had been privileged to wrap herself in for such a short while. "It was the only nice thing I owned." He nearly laughed when her lower lip pooched out in ill-temper, but wisely refrained from doing so.

He shook his head. "I went back to the alley, but it was gone. Someone else got to it before I did." He didn't tell her how the bodies of the two men had also been stripped of anything of value, along with their clothing. The sight of the naked corpses surrounded by rats nibbling on their cold, gray flesh hadn't fazed him in the least, but he would not burden her young ears with it. He cursed himself as she dropped her eyes from his, for he had caught the disappointment in them. Disappointment in _him. _He would question himself later as to why that fact bothered him.

Slowly he put the tip of his finger under her chin and tilted her head up to meet his gaze. "Would you like to see some magic as a special treat?"

She stared into the yellow depths of his eyes, and once again she saw the pleading look she would sometimes catch there. Someone expecting the worst, but hoping for the best- perhaps even a kind word. For some strange reason, seeing it always made her want to cry. She realized for the first time, how difficult his life must have been. How hard it must still be.

Trying to rise above her low spirits, she gamely replied, "Magic?" She nodded and sat up a little straighter.

He released a pent up breath and held out his hands, palms up and fingers extended. "See anything, Louise?" He turned them over and back again showing her they were empty. "Anything at all?" and he waggled his fingers.

She leaned forward and studied his hands. "Nothing," she confirmed.

"Excellent!" He closed them both into fists, then slowly opened them to reveal a small bar of Swiss chocolate nestled in each palm.

"Oh!" Precious gems wouldn't have excited her half as much as those small bits of sweetness did. She stared with hungry eyes at them, her mouth already watering in anticipation.

"_You really must eat me first_. _I have a much richer taste than that insipid blob over there!_"

Louise squealed in surprise at the mature, motherly voice issuing from the piece of dark chocolate resting in Erik's left palm. She looked at him with shining eyes. "How-?"

"_How, you ask_?" replied the white chocolate sitting innocently in his other hand. "_Why magic, of course_." it was said in light girlish tones, reminiscent of Cosette. "_But I must tell you that my taste is sweeter by far than that bitter old harridan over there. Try me for yourself, dearest girl_. _You will be most pleasantly surprised._"

Louise laughed in delight at this clever bit of legerdemain and clapped her hands, wincing at the sudden flare of pain in her shoulder. "Bravo! _Now_ will you tell me how you talk without moving your lips? _And _how you made them speak in different voices?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't. Magicians guard those secrets with their very lives, you see." He reached for her hand, only hesitating for a moment, and placed the chocolate bars in her palm, gently closing her fingers over them. "Eat them before you drool all over my bed, silly girl."

Louise looked up at him in awe. "You really are a magician."

He watched her face, ridiculously pleased with her reaction. He would get her more chocolate if he had to go clear to Montmartre to get it.

She shoved the too long sleeves of Erik's shirt further up her arms, and unwrapped the dark chocolate bar, staring at it. "I almost feel like a cannibal now after listening to them talk," she quipped, grinning up at him, but nevertheless took a small bite. She closed her eyes in delight as it melted on her tongue. It was the best thing she'd ever tasted and promised herself to save the other for the next day. She glanced up at Erik. "Thank you," she whispered. Her resentment toward him wasn't gone by any means, but her anger died a little more. He wasn't entirely forgiven, but his gentle care of her had gone a long way in softening her acrimony.

* * *

Louise, a blanket draped across her shoulders, walked carefully into the parlor and found Erik kneeling in front of the fireplace feeding it the last of the chair pieces. It was always cold in the cellars, regardless of the weather above. In this case it was a mild day at the tail end of April, the sun beginning to carry more warmth with it, but it had little affect on those beneath the theatre.

The fire caught and was soon a cheery orange glow as she walked over to it and held her hands out to the welcome heat. Erik stood up and dusted his hands. "It's good to see you up and about again. Just don't overdo it, all right? The wound is still healing."

She nodded and turned around to face him, presenting her backside to the heat. To Erik, she looked like a contented house cat, practically purring in her enjoyment. He would have to build more fires for her. He eyed his few pieces of furniture speculatively.

"I once had a nice coal fire every single day to warm these rooms," he lamented. "There's hardly a stick of wood left in the city, let alone a good supply of coal." He snorted in disgust. "Nothing gets in, and very little gets out."

Louise had often wondered about his residency under the opera, and although he was still not very loquacious at times, ever since the events in the alley, Erik had warmed to her a trifle more. "How did you come to live here in the first place? Didn't the workers notice you at all?"

"They noticed me. How could they not? I was one of them, Louise," he said quietly. "I was here when they broke ground for the building."

This revelation startled her. "You _built_ this place?"

"Not single handed, but I sub-contracted for the foundation," he said in amusement. "I came by looking for work when they first started. They ran into a problem nearly from the start with marshy ground that wouldn't drain properly, and the work crew wasn't sure how to proceed. I merely showed them how and was hired on the spot."

"But how did you end up _living _down here?"

"Charles Garnier gave me leave to live in the cellars, Louise. He alone...well, besides you, knows that I reside here." At her puzzled look, he explained. "The designers and contractors would have figured it out eventually, but Garnier was on a tight schedule to please the emperor. I explained to him that he needed a double foundation and a way of retaining the water- hence the lake."

Louise tamped down her impatience, for she'd had conversations such as these with Erik before. Eventually she would have her answer- in a roundabout fashion. "So he gave you a job building the foundations?" She looked at the masked man with growing respect.

He nodded. "That and others. I was young, but I had letters of commendation from other job sites. I built homes for a living for a few years, but aside from my credentials, he was smart enough to realize that what I was telling him made sense. He's a great man, child. One of the best, but he left here sick, I heard. He was able to get out before the Prussians tightened their grip on the city. The siege weakened many from hunger and disease."

"He will come back, won't he? It's not finished."

Erik shrugged and sat down on the sofa, patting the space beside him. "Sit, Louise. I don't know, but I have often wondered that myself. There's much left to do and I fear what is ahead. As I told you, he gave me leave to make this my home. He liked the idea of a...a _caretaker_ in his opera house." His eyes glittered strangely, and he thrust his bony chin out. "In _my _opera house." He eyed her intently. "May I tell you something?"

Louise watched him as he talked. He loved this mammoth building. She nodded, curious as to what put the eager light in his eyes.

"Years ago I began writing an opera. It's nowhere near completion, but I can't work on it for very long. Someday I hope to return to it and when I do, I will have a pipe organ for my own use, right here in this house."

"Are you working on it now?" The idea of Erik composing his own music intrigued her. She knew he had great musical talent. His skill on the violin was proof of that.

He shook his head. "Sometimes it is all I _can_ do, but the music burns, child. I must stop or it will consume me. It has been two years since I did any real work on it."

"But why here, Erik?" she said as she threw her hands out to encompass the gloomy corners, the absence of daylight, and the chill which always pervaded the stale air. "You have such talent! I've heard the violin. You are wonderful! Why?"

"Why?" he sneered. "Well, _why_ do you think I wear this?" and he flicked a finger at the black mask almost with contempt. "Do you not think that if I were handsome I would flaunt my male beauty, instead of hiding it?" He surged to his feet and took a turn around the room, his usually graceful movements, choppy and excited.

"I was done with the world, Louise. And it had no particular problem seeing the back of me, I dare say. They tried to stop my breath many times, but I refused that dubious honor." He snorted in disgust. "Even those I worked with on this theatre couldn't abide me." He turned and faced her, and she realized he was working himself into a rage.

She gathered her courage together as he eyed her with distaste, and she tried to placate him. "_I_ like you," she whispered.

She realized it was the truth. As difficult as he often was, he could at times, be a kind man. She smiled to herself. Albeit one with many painfully sharp edges.

"If I were to remove this mask, you would kick up your heels and run for your life." His eyes blazed with a scorching inner light. "The female of the species requires regular features and a noble brow. Of which I have none. You are no different, so do not pretend that you are."

Erik wasn't buying her declaration just yet. He seemed to argue against any kind of friendship, and again she was reminded of a dog whipped too many times. She regarded his long limbs and killing hands- the feral gleam of knowing eyes. The mask. It was no wonder others skirted around him. Who would have the audacity to try and befriend an enigma?

_She _would.


	6. Chapter 6

For a few days Louise tiptoed around the masked man after making several attempts at conversation, which were initially rebuffed. She could hear the violin behind the closed door of the empty room, mournful and pedantic. In an unspoken agreement, Erik had given up his bedchamber for her use, and after thanking him any number of times, he grew tired of her gratitude, waspishly insisting she leave off. But having a little privacy again, more than made up for his ill-temper. While still recovering, and ensconced in his bed, she had timidly asked him about the Dies Irae marching in cadence around the room.

He dispassionately regarded her as he set a breakfast tray on her lap. It was meager fare, a cup of tea and a thin slice of stale bread; lunch would consist of the same, and a thin soup or watery gruel would usually comprise their supper. Hunger was never far away, but he was managing to find enough to keep them both alive. Food was becoming even more scarce if that was possible, and Erik was spending more of his time in search of it. Often it turned into a foot race which he ultimately won, but a few times it had been a very close thing when the pursuer was young and fit.

The girl was unaware of some of the more exotic meat which made it into the soups and stews with which he provided her. Erik hadn't sunk so low as to consider putting rat on the menu just yet, but if the status quo continued much longer, it would be. Restaurants such as Maxine's and Le Grand Lefour in the Palais Royal were still serving customers who had the money, which most did not. He had made a few trips to each of them; the last where he pilfered some kangaroo meat, courtesy of the zoo, and the chase was on. The dearth of food produced a new sort of Parisian; one more than willing to run him down for a bit of bread or a few wilted vegetables. They never caught him, for if they had, stolen food would be the least of their worries.

He straightened up, shoving both hands in his pockets and impassively surveyed the room before answering her. "This is where I will meet eternity, Louise. My remains will never reside anywhere else, let alone receive mourners to pay their respects." He shook his head and stared pensively at the black musical notes high on the walls. "It is my requiem, and the music will surround me always." He cocked his head at her, amused by her troubled reaction, for she had struggled to sit up, and her distress at his words was plain to see. He could read her emotions very well. "_I_ find comfort in that, don't you?"

She stared aghast at him. "This room will be your...your burial chamber?"

He shrugged. "Of course it will. Where else would it be? Need I remind you that these cellars are the final resting place of your friend?"

She took a sip of her tea and looked as though she had swallowed something bitter. "No, I know they are," she said quietly. "But _you_ don't have to be buried in anything other than hallowed ground, Erik. Someday this will all be over, and we will have our lives back again, and when we do, I intend to buy masses for Cosette's soul."

"Very noble of you, I'm sure," he said blandly, and Louise glanced at him suspiciously, almost certain he was teasing her, "but this is my home, unlike your friend. I have no reason to be buried in a fancy hole in the ground, for I am already in one," he said blandly, glancing up at the ceiling far above their heads, "and you may ask what my headstone will be. And shall I tell you, curious child?" His eyes were alight with an unsettling mirth, and he made no effort to hide the fact that he was mocking her as well as himself. "Not interested in the answer? No? Allow me to enlighten you anyway. It will read Academie Nationale de Musique! What else!" and Louise cringed when he began to laugh in that way he had which was anything but amusing.

"You cannot mean to live here for the rest of your life!" She was horrified at the thought of anyone ending their days unshriven in this pit beneath the earth. "You go above now and approach people. Why not live among them in the sun and fresh air? Have windows to look out upon green grass and...and flowers?"

He snorted and rocked on the balls of his feet, eying her with scorn. "No and no. The longer I stay in the light, the easier it is for people to decide I'm not fit to share it. I have tried, Louise. Trust me, they can think of only one way to deal with me in the end." His mouth had become a grim slash. "Send it back to Hell where it belongs. No, I don't need any of that, nor do I want it anymore."

She didn't know how to answer him. Louise's young heart felt sorry for him, his loneliness palpable even if he vigorously denied it. "Someday I'm going to have my own little house and I'll grow all sorts of flowers." Thinking of a day when she would have lots to eat and the ability to walk safely in the sunlight, became a lovely game. "Yes, I'll grow all kinds of flowers- nasturtiums and hollyhocks. Daffodils and...and roses! Lots and lots of roses- every color possible."

She licked the crumbs off of her lips, warming to her subject, her sudden smile incongruous against her bruised face. "You can come and visit me, Erik. We will have tea and croissants in my garden, and I'll give you baskets of flowers to take home, and y-you'll have rainbows in all of your rooms! And I will dance again. I will! I'll be the prima ballerina and you can watch me as I become Giselle and die from a broken heart for love of my duke."

"Yes, and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, Louise. You are much too innocent to be believed. After everything that has happened to you, you still think like a gullible child!"

He said it with spite, and her easy grin disappeared in an instant. Glumly she had to agree with him. There seemed to be no ending to the misery in their world. Quickly she dropped the subject.

* * *

Late May saw a return of drenching rains and a rumor of the French army ready to enter Paris and put an end to the insurrection. Below the opera, Louise's shoulder was nearly healed. There would be a scar, but with Erik's careful cleaning of the wound and neat stitching, it would be minimal. The contusions on her face had gone from purple to a bilious yellow, finally fading away altogether- the memories of that night would not.

She was becoming restless, wanting to see the sky again and feel the wind on her face- breathe fresh air. She waited impatiently for Erik to return one evening. He no longer wished for her to accompany him, deeming it too dangerous for her, and she only just managed to keep her mouth closed. Isn't that what she had told him all along? But to point it out to him in light of his mercurial moods, would be a foolish move on her part. In any case, her days as a streetwalker were over.

Louise once again tackled the front door, searching for a way to get it open. Every time he left for an extended period of time, she studied the door carefully, looking for that elusive way out. Where there should have been a doorknob, was absolute smoothness as though it was merely a part of the wall. Just like the wall in the empty room, which also contained a door. She was sure of it, but how-? She stood regarding it, chewing her thumb nail, then reached up and ran her hand over it, looking for a protrusion no matter how slight. Before she got very far, however, it opened.

She let out a gasp, and hurriedly turned, sprinting across the room to the fireplace. Schooling her features, she smiled at Erik as he came through the door. He was soaked to the skin, and besides being dripping wet and muddy, he was furious. After two months of living in the cellars with him, she was learning to interpret the emotion swimming in those yellow eyes of his; even the set of his mouth could reveal his mood to her. He looked away, walking stiffly to the kitchen and dropped a small package unceremoniously onto the table where it plopped wetly.

"This building is crawling with Communard soldiers! The streets are the same, and finding any food in this lunatic asylum is out of the question at the moment. Except for this," and he jerked his bony chin at the soggy parcel. He finally turned to her and his eyes were bright with his agitation. "The French army has breached the ramparts and they are fighting street to street now. General Delacluze was shot to death as he stood atop a barricade in the Place du Chateau-d'Eau." He rubbed tiredly at his jaw. "That has put the Commune in a bit of disarray, but they still managed to fire the Tuileries Palace- the destructive sods!"

She followed him into the kitchen and he stabbed a long finger at the small package leaking blood onto the table. "This must have been a dear member of the family once. They chased me through several streets and barricades to get it back."

He winced in pain from the deep laceration in his leg which he acquired falling over one of the barriers. Stretched across the narrow streets, they were in most places, taller than himself. If one were to study the barricades in any detail, they would consider them to be not much more than garbage heaps, piled with all manner of household goods and construction material. Some of which had very jagged edges. One barrier in particular in the rue de Rivoli was composed almost entirely of paving stones and timbers from gutted houses. It had shifted slightly as he rapidly climbed over it and slid down the other side, catching his leg on something sharp, and laying it open. He never hesitated, but ran on as blood streamed down his leg and pooled in his shoe. He had eventually lost his pursuer, and was able to bind the wound with a makeshift bandage and limp home, one shoe squelching indecently with a wet sucking sound every time he put his foot down.

Louise missed the look of pain which thinned his mouth, instead staring at the package with a moue of distaste. "What is it?"

"Meat. What else do you require to know?" he snapped.

"What _kind_ of meat?" she asked stubbornly.

"I'm not really sure, ungrateful chit! Perhaps it is some beloved family pet they were about to serve. Little Pierre the spaniel, or maybe Chou Chou, the kitty cat. You've eaten it before, Louise. Why so fastidious now?"

She stared back at him wide-eyed and utterly speechless. "I never ate anyone's c-cat, Erik!" horrified that indeed she had. She stepped back hurriedly when his awful eyes gleamed with ill-humor.

"Perhaps you will recall our dinner not more than a week past, Louise, dear child." he said with false calm. He was enjoying himself at her expense, and in that moment she hated him. "Well? Do you?" when she said nothing. "Let me refresh your memory then. You commented on the flavor, saying it was the tastiest you had..."

"Stop it! Stop it!" she screamed. "Oh, why are you so horrible?" She felt the sting of angry tears and pointed at the sodden package dripping all over the table. "I won't eat that. I won't!"

His eyes were narrowed dangerously and his whole demeanor was poised on the brink of something which would prove unpleasant for her. She started to back away from him, cognizant of his shift in temper. Her move away from him wasn't lost on Erik. "Damned guttersnipe! Then go hungry for all I care!" he shouted. "I no longer wish to cater to a tiresome _child _not worth one bit of my time!"

"You _insisted _I stay here! And look how well that turned out." She was hungry and cold, past caring about his anger. She possessed some spleen as well, but she could have bitten her tongue at her next words when she saw the hurt and rage glistening in his eyes. "As far as your _time _is concerned, what else do you have to occupy yourself? You have no one and never will!"

Quick as a snake he was on her, grabbing her arm and hauling her closer. Louise squeaked in alarm, waiting for a blow that didn't come. Instead he shoved her backward, her hip connecting painfully with the edge of the table before landing hard on her behind. She scrambled to her feet and put the table between them, watching him carefully, but he merely stepped toward it and snatched up the package. Cursing savagely, he hurled it at the wall where it slid in a desultory fashion to the floor, leaving behind a trail of pink slime.

"I just caught two of those Communard bastards not many feet from my front door! Of course I could not let them live. No one gets this close to my home and leaves to carry tales!" He looked at her in sneering appraisal. "I'm amazed that I let _you _in. It was a mistake, for you are indeed worthless. It would seem you were better off in that cell after all." He pointed to the oozing mess on the floor. "Do what you will with it. I won't be here."

With that, he turned away, but before he left the room she caught sight of his trouser leg. The coarse material had a jagged tear, stained red, and a bloody bandage was just visible. Louise forgot his disgust and cruel words in an instant. "Erik! You're hurt!"

But he was already out the front door leaving her to wonder what had just happened. The masked man wasn't the easiest person to live with; abrupt with her and secretive, he could also be kind, even making her laugh on occasion. But she feared her time here had finally run out. He had been livid with her and she had goaded him to an unsafe degree. On shaky knees, she cleaned the wall and floor as weak tears ran down her cheeks.

The rest of the day passed by in agonizing slowness and Louise went through the motions of dusting and sweeping the rooms for wont of anything else to do. Eventually hunger drove her to cook the piece of meat that had caused the rift in their relationship. She forced herself to eat some of it, storing the remaining portion for Erik. The evening crawled by just as slowly as the afternoon had, and still he hadn't returned. She washed and readied herself for bed, then approached the wall where the front door was hidden from view. It was fast becoming imperative that she find the door. Often, she wondered what she _would _do if she found the way out. Leave him for the much more dangerous streets? She smoothed her hand down the wall, feeling for any slight protrusion, and finding nothing after a half hour of fruitless searching, she admitted defeat and went to bed.

She curled up in a tight, miserable ball underneath the blanket, her worry and unease growing. What if he didn't return? How was she supposed to live? She would starve down here or go crazy first. She would be entombed alive until death claimed her, starvation inevitable- a slow and excruciating way to die. A whimper escaped her. Where was Erik? She found it hard to believe he would simply abandon her. Even in his anger she couldn't see him being so heartless, but what if he was captured, or worse- dead?

Louise spent a restless night, waking at the slightest sound, believing one moment she was hearing the front door opening, or stealthy footsteps approaching the foot of the bed. By dawn she had finally slipped into an exhausted sleep, awaking four hours later and jumping out of bed to see if Erik had returned. On hesitant feet, she searched the house to no avail and her anxiety rose anew.

That day dragged just as slowly as the previous one, and she spent much of it at the wall looking intensely for some way of opening the door she well knew was there. She found nothing, and finally slumped in defeat, agonizing about her fate, until her worry shifted over to Erik's whereabouts. He had been gone for two days and she was soon to spend a second night alone. She finally came to the grim conclusion that he was captured or dead. This place was his home, not to mention she rather thought he liked her a little, or had. He wouldn't simply leave- where would he go?

She approached the wall, picturing the placement of his hands there. Closing her eyes, she very slowly ran her fingers over it again. They had gone through the hidden door many times and she was never certain how he opened it, but she had realized early on it was a hidden mechanism that must trigger it. She raised her arms above her shoulders. Erik was tall- surely the means to open it would be higher up for that reason alone. She continued to feel the wall, her shoulders beginning to ache, and tears of frustration running down her cheeks, when her thumb hit a slight depression, and just like that, the door swung open silently. It was so sudden she could only stand there open mouthed, numbly regarding the door she had searched for with such vexation. Finally she shook herself out of her stupor, crowing with delight and jumping up and down at having found the way out. Her movements abruptly stilled, and she peered timidly into the gloom just outside the door. She half expected Erik to come rushing toward her, enraged by her actions.

She could leave if she wanted; they had left the little house many times and she had become familiar with the way to the surface using the little known rue Scribe entrance to the cellars. What gave her pause was the knowledge that men of the Commune had made it this far. She hastily looked around, seeing and hearing nothing in the stygian darkness.

Making up her mind, she went back inside and took one of the blankets, throwing it around her shoulders. She would have something of warmth when she reached the outside. Excited at the prospect of escape into the world once again, she wished now only to leave.

Louise debated over taking the last small bit of cooked meat that was left, and decided that she must. She had eked the food out, making it last as long as possible. She couldn't be certain if Erik would return and she didn't know where she would get her next meal. She took the tin lantern from under the kitchen sink that Erik kept on hand, and lit it; he only ever used it sparingly, but she knew it was full of kerosene. She lit the wick, trimming it low, and walked to the front door. She turned for one last look.

She stood indecisive for a moment. She was free! No longer kept in this dreary place against her will. But the joy at escaping her erstwhile jailer wouldn't come. Erik had been good to her. Not always, and certainly not exclusively in her best interests; many of his actions were done to benefit himself, and only served to put her in a perilous position. But he had cared for her and fed her to the best of his abilities. She realized a long time ago that caring for someone other than himself hadn't been easy for him.

Louise reached to pull the door shut, but hesitated. If she did become lost or perhaps needed the safety of the little house again, how would she get in? Obviously it would be in the same manner, but finding the tiny press might take too long if she was in a hurry. Or being pursued? Deciding, she pulled the door shut until only a sliver remained between it and the wall. Turning, she began her trek to the surface and freedom.

* * *

He stood among his fellow prisoners like the tallest tree in the forest, albeit one surrounded, but remaining apart as it had always been for him. He had considered fighting his way out, and it had looked like there was a chance, but more of the citizen soldiers had arrived pointing weapons at him from all angles.

He never even left the theatre; instead he was trapped between soldiers approaching him from opposite ends of the passage. His only excuse for the predicament he was in, he blamed on Louise. The useless chit had enraged him to the point where his surroundings became secondary to thoughts of what he would like to do to her. He had realized if he killed even one of the Communards, he would be shot out of hand. And now he waited with the others; they, being two men and a woman with her young child. The girl, no older than four, whined incessantly until Erik's head ached from the noise.

He turned his lamp-like eyes on the child, and the girl screeched in terror, hiding behind her mother's skirts. As one, the four of them backed even further away, the child still blubbering.

"Madame. Shut _that _up!" he ordered her, gesturing to the girl, who made things worse by wetting herself. The stink of urine reached his sensitive nasal cavities, and added insult to injury. "Have a care, or the evil troll will have you for dinner, girl!"

The woman sank to her knees and pressed her daughter's face to her chest. The child continued to cry, but thankfully it was muffled by her mother's ample bosom. Erik sketched a mocking bow. "Many thanks."

He leaned against the opposite wall, having no wish to intrude on the sensibilities of his fellow hostages. His tattered leg was throbbing and he wished for some clean water and a fresh bandage. His damp mask was chafing his skin raw, deepening his misery. He needed to concentrate on a way out of this predicament before any of the guards eying him curiously, decided to end his life sooner rather than later. They had so far left his mask alone, no doubt thinking it a war injury, but before long, that would change- once one of them became brave enough.

His thoughts came round to Louise again. His anger had finally sputtered out, but was quickly replaced with worry. She was alone in his house and if he died here, she would be trapped behind his walls unless she found the door press. As Erik contemplated an escape, he observed the arrival of a very agitated National Guardsman who began gesturing wildly as he spoke with one of their guards. The two men looked at him then away, and minutes later, only one guard remained, as the others grabbed their rifles and left hurriedly.

The remaining Communard sidled a little closer to Erik's cell smiling all the while. "Not much longer, monsieur. You and the rest will be released," but he saw the bitter truth in the man's eyes. They would be executed. "You conceal your face. Why? Was it the war?"

The strange eyes regarded him silently, making the other man uncomfortable. "The war, you ask? Nothing so trivial, I'm afraid." He pointed a skeletal finger at the black cloth covering his features. "Curiosity always runs rampant when something lies hidden in plain sight, does it not?" He spoke in a sonorous murmur, lulling the guard by the silken tones coming from those thin lips. The Communard felt the dire need to hear everything the gaunt man said- _everything,_ and shuffled closer to the source. "It would not serve anyone if I were to remove it, you understand," the voice said gently, "although I once did as an act." He shook his head and sighed. "Oh, they did scream then, young master. Trust me, they did," Erik said softly, and the guard shivered.

The Guardsman wasn't much more than a boy, and the excitement of forging a new world order for the working man meant very little to him now. Socialism was tedious and violent business, and he longed only for sunny days and his old friends. Many were now manning the barricades surrounding Paris as the French army made their push to take back the city.

"Show me." The guard gestured to the mask, his excitement and curiosity whetted; it was imperative now that he see what it hid, and again he inched toward the bars, almost against his will. He shook his head in a moment of confusion, but nonetheless continued his forward momentum.

"I don't think you have the courage to see it, but if you dare, come closer still. I have no wish to frighten the little child, you understand."

The guard looked briefly at the girl, who was sucking vigorously on her thumb, and hiccuping as she watched the masked man with wide glazed eyes. The Communard moved closer to the bars as Erik put his hands to the mask, and it was enough. Faster than the eye could blink, he went for the Punjab lasso instead, and it flew with deadly precision through the bars, cinching tightly around its target. Truly, curiosity did indeed kill the cat, or in this case the Communard guard. The man looked at his killer, not quite sure how the tables had turned so suddenly, but soon his only wish was to breathe. Which was never granted, as with monstrous strength, he was dragged by the neck to the cell and was soon slumped lifeless against the bars.

The cells were raucous with yells and screams of horror as the man was garroted in front of the people crowded as far as they could get from the violence which had just exploded in front of their eyes. The small girl was frozen in shock, her mouth working, but nothing emerging as she stared at the man whose legs were feebly moving as his life drained away.

Erik reached through the bars and pulled the rifle through to his side. Swiftly he went through the man's pockets looking for the keys, and grinned wickedly when his fingers closed over them. Within seconds, he had the cell open and was shoving the body away from the door. The others in the dungeon started calling to him, imploring him to release them next. His own cell mates had moved a little closer to the door, but stopped when he turned and regarded them in cold amusement.

"Erik is not so very bad now, yes?" He tossed the keys to the men. "You may do the honor of unlocking the other cells. I have a young lady waiting impatiently for my return." His thin lips turned up in a ghastly smile, revealing sharp incisors as he observed the woman and her daughter, bowing once again to them. "Madame et mademoiselle. Your servant."

And he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Louise started having second thoughts about leaving, and once acknowledged, she couldn't ignore the tiny voice which became louder with every step she took away from the house by the lake. Her eagerness to leave the cellars hadn't diminished. On the contrary, it had only grown stronger as she walked cautiously through the passage which had begun a gradual rise to the street. She saw no one and was thankful for that small mercy, but found it curious since Erik caught two of the Communards near his home.

She couldn't shake the sense that she was running out on him, and her steps slowed until she halted in the passage, torn between leaving and staying. What drove her out the door was her hunger. The daylight, poor as it was, immediately blinded her, driving sharp little needles into her eyes, and she reeled back, hands tight against her face. She stood just inside the open door, eyes clamped tightly shut and streaming tears, but breathing deep of the moist air, freshened as it was by rain. It smelled wonderful compared to the dankness of the cellars, but after a few minutes another odor invaded her nostrils. As yet it was faint, but she well knew it was being carried on the wind. It was the smell of putrefaction.

"I ah...I think I'll wait a minute or so," she gasped, knuckling her eyes. Thankfully it was cloudy; a sunny day would have made it impossible to adjust to the light. She had been too long in the cellars. In the far distance she could hear the sporadic pop of gunfire and grimly realized that finding food now would be doubly perilous. Louise draped the blanket over her head, shielding her eyes enough to see around her. Wrapped in a rag and gripped tightly in one hand, was the money she earned with Erik. If she couldn't steal any food, she would simply have to buy it. She would get what provisions she could and return to the house by the lake. Yes. That's what she would do. Perhaps he would be back by then. Either way, it was a roof over her head, and once behind the door of the little house, she was as safe there as anywhere. Feeling better for having a plan, she set off down the street.

* * *

"I cannot believe I am going to do this. You are a ninny, Louise," she muttered in disgust, as her feet working entirely on their own, retraced their steps back to the house beneath the opera. In that moment she felt very young and very stupid as she left the fresher air behind for the damp and dreary underground. But another feeling was present- relief. As she hurried through the near darkness, she was glad to be leaving the dangerous streets behind. But she cast her mind back to the Madeleine, and the man and boy she met that very afternoon.

Earlier that day she had trudged to the church at the end of the rue Royale, and spent a few moments inside the comfort of its magnificent sanctuary, promising herself to come back someday and buy masses for her parents and Cosette. She prayed fervently for them, and was horrified on leaving, to discover bodies stacked like so much cord wood in the churchyard. Men labored beneath the lowering skies, a fine, misty rain falling as they dug a trench for burial in a mass grave, and she shivered in revulsion. From the theatre to the church, she had carefully skirted the random dead, their bloated corpses lying haphazardly in the streets, while Parisians for the most part ignored them. Death no longer had the power to shock, and their business was curtailed to keeping themselves out of harm's way.

Watching the scene, she observed a man and boy on horseback, wending their way carefully through a street clogged with the refuse of a siege. Barracades had been thrown up to impede the progress of the French army, rendering it a torturous way to navigate the streets of Paris. A closer look at the two revealed them to be what her mother would have called genterie, members of the wealthy class and way beyond her touch. Her eyes were drawn to the man; he sat his horse easily and wore the air of one used to commanding others.

He was deep in conversation with the boy, and therefore missed the small child that darted into the middle of the road, his harried mother running frantically after him. The young boy of about four years of age, ran straight toward the two on horseback and under the very hooves of the man's skittish stallion. Louise, closer to the child, and seeing disaster, dropped the blanket and rushed forward as the bay horse rose on his hind legs. The child's mother screamed, while the man fought to control the animal, nearly unseating him in the process. Louise shrugged off her blanket, and grabbed the child by one thin arm, dragging him roughly away from the rearing horse.

"Oh, mam'selle! Thank you, thank you!" the young mother cried, frightened and out of breath as she got to them. "He is such a bad boy. Aren't you, Henri?" She reached for her son, giving him a teeth-rattling shake, and perversely followed it with a smothering hug, the boy protesting loudly.

The man, winning the battle of wills with the stallion, brought the spooked horse under control, and spoke briefly to the boy. They both dismounted, the gentleman removing his hat, and Louise took in his light brown hair and athletic build. He was above average height and dressed neatly in a gray sack coat and trousers. To her young eyes, he managed to look trim and elegant surrounded as he was by the ruins of war. She glanced self-consciously at the tow headed boy beside him, who appeared to be not much younger than she, and resisted the urge to scrub her hands on her skirt, feeling grubby and disheveled by comparison.

The man grimly observed the child, a muscle working in one cheek, then turned his cold eyes on Louise. "My thanks to you. If not for your timely intervention, the boy may have been badly injured, if not worse."

She looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen and couldn't find her voice.

He smiled at her, and his stern face relaxed, becoming younger and altogether charming. Incongruously, she stared at a dimple in his strong chin, and becoming flustered, hastily dropped her eyes. "You are the heroine of the hour. Philippe de Chagny, mademoiselle, and my brother Raoul." He turned to the boy beside him, the other's round, smooth face appearing almost delicate in comparison to the elder de Chagny's very masculine features. "This young scamp decided he wished to ride after I told him he may not." He regarded the boy with affection tempered with a healthy dose of exasperation. "He thought to elude me," and he patted the shoulder of the horse beside him, "but this big fellow, although not well known for his tractability, is the swiftest in my stable, even circumventing blocked roads as it were," and his lip curled in disdain. "Fortunes of war, I suppose." He turned back to his brother, his lean face once again serious. "Flaunting horseflesh in front of a starving populace is not a wise thing to do. Wouldn't you agree?"

Louise looked at the boy with some sympathy, while Raoul stood beside his brother, his face flaming at the set-down. She smiled at him, and shyly, he smiled back, managing to look sheepish as well. Philippe slipped his hat back on, while shrewdly observing the girl's careworn appearance and thin face. He was only too aware of the rampant hunger in the city; he did what he could with what he had- having his men deliver food to those in dire need. But he couldn't feed the entire city and had no wish to. He had remained in Paris while others fled; he would not see his family's ancient town home destroyed by rabble.

Deciding quickly, he took out his card and handed it to the young girl. Something in her proud bearing and solemn face touched his heart. "Take this to the proprietor of the Au Rocher de Cancale. Do you know where it is? Yes? Very good. Tell him to give you what you require. He can settle with me later. Ask for Armand."

Louise realized she was being rewarded for her services and felt only a minor twinge of embarrassment that the handsome man was paying her off. The rest of her thoughts were taken up with the idea of having something substantial to eat. "T-Thank you."

He mounted his horse, the animal attempting to sashay sideways. "That's more than enough, Mal de mer!" and tightly reined him in. "Continue this, and _you_ will be in the stew pot next."

Louise smiled even as she nervously backed away from the large animal. "Does he, monsieur?"

Philippe looked down at the girl a trifle impatiently, wanting to be gone now. "Does he what?"

"H-His name. _Does_ he get seasick?"

He smiled faintly at her. "Not in the same way you might, although crossing the channel from England, it took all of us to keep him relatively quiet." Philippe nodded to her. "Stay safe, mademoiselle. The fighting isn't over, but there is hope yet."

She watched them until they were out of sight, then with a heavy sigh, glanced around for her blanket and cursed to find it gone. No doubt stolen by someone who needed it more than she did. One thief to another, and she cursed again at its loss. People milled around the area, a few crying as they searched through the dead for loved ones, others no better than vultures, rifling through a dead man's pockets for anything of value. She cringed, thinking of her recent enterprise with Erik, and for a moment, nearly turned and went back to the Madeleine and the confessional box. She felt certain she would be doing penance for her sins well into her thirties. She watched as two women attempted to turn over a body which was proving to be stiff and unyielding; she stared at the grisly sight, morbidly fascinated by the break down of her world. An old woman standing with a small knot of others, saw her gaze riveted on the scene of mayhem and approached her on arthritic legs.

"Ay, the Guards were overtaken by the Republic's soldiers this afternoon. They gave no quarter, mam'selle. Took their weapons away from them and shot them where they stood. Women also." She wagged her head in disgust. "They swept on from here and went to the next street over. No one is safe these days, so watch where you step and with whom you speak."

The old grandmother leaned closer to Louise. "Imagine having a conversation with the likes of _him_."

"Philippe de Chagny?" Louise said, staring down the road where he had disappeared.

"No, I mean the _Comte _de Chagny, child. A powerful force in this city... or he used to be."

"The Comte de Chagny," she whispered, liking the sound of it on her tongue. She looked down at the embossed card the comte handed to her, and decided to find the restaurant. She turned to leave.

The old woman leaned closer to Louise, smelling strongly of camphor oil and sour sweat. "Careful does it, girl. This will be a bloody week, I fear."

She stared at the women one last time as they moved on to the next corpse, the stench from the dead working uneasily on her empty stomach, then hurried on her way. Once again she wondered what had happened to Erik. Was he one of the many corpses littering the streets? No, she reasoned stubbornly. He would be too clever for them. Louise wasted no time walking to the rue Montorgueil, and managed to speak with the proprietor of the Au Rocher de Cancale before he could throw her out of the restaurant. She quickly showed him the comte's calling card.

She bit her tongue, holding in the laugh at his consternation; he was suspicious of her, knowing full well that the comte did not fraternize with persons such as the unkempt child before him. Lovely ladies- yes. Ragamuffins- absolutely not, but he dare not dismiss the girl out of hand, for it was most definitely de Chagny's card of introduction and the comte was a regular at his establishment. His nose high in the air, he reluctantly provided her with a bag of provisions. At long last she had food; better yet, it didn't cost her one centime.

She quickened her steps through the wet and silent streets clutching the burlap bag, which had tucked inside of it, four withered apples, no, _three_ apples, for she was devouring one as she retraced her steps back to the rue Scribe. There was also a sizable piece of meat, species unknown, three sausages and two loaves of unleavened bread. Louise felt at times that she was being watched, and no doubt it was true, for once the sun began its descent, a different sort of city dweller walked Paris after dark, and that was all the more reason to be safely inside. She was eager now to return to the cellars and see if the masked man had come home. If he hadn't, she would try to muster the courage and look for him.

She was nearly to Erik's little house when she heard the sound of voices echoing in the tunnel ahead and hurriedly blew out the lantern. She turned in a circle as the sounds resonated from different directions, not certain what to do or where to go, She was a hungry and frightened girl, tired of being alone. She took a hesitant step backward, preparing herself to run to the intersecting passage behind her.

The decision was made for her when a long arm wrapped around her waist, and a spidery hand covered her mouth to stop the scream bubbling up in her throat. She was lifted off of her feet, and carried back to the side passage she had crossed but a moment ago. The hand remained over her mouth, and while she struggled against her captor's superior strength, a voice she knew well, hissed in her ear.

"Eager to converse with Communards again, Louise? Wait any longer and you will be doing more than-" He was startled when instead of trying to get away, she turned and threw her arms around his narrow waist, forcing a soft grunt from him.

"You're alive! I knew it! I knew it-"

Erik stiffened as she clung to him, unsure of her clutching hands. Before he could say anything more, he heard the shuffle of feet coming closer to where they hid. "Shh... Remain perfectly still." he managed to whisper as he stared down at the top of her head where her cheek was pressed against his chest.

She nodded, keeping him tightly secured in her embrace as she began to cry out of sheer relief. Erik was motionless as her tears wet his shirt, his arms hanging completely useless at his sides. His ears were attuned to the tramping feet and grim voices nearly on top of them, but the rest of his senses were completely caught up in the notion of being held by this slip of a girl. As the men moved past them on what would one day be known as the Communist Road, he slowly raised a hand and awkwardly patted her thin shoulder. He was by degrees vastly uncomfortable from her proximity, and at the same time absolutely enchanted to be held in her arms. He was terrified and wanted nothing more than to get away from her.

They stood there listening tensely to the tramp of many feet and Louise rubbed her cheek against the coarse linen of his shirt. She had recognized the need to stay quiet, and struggled to do so, finally pushing her face into his narrow chest. She had felt the urge for a good cry...the bodies in the streets outside the opera house had horrified her, bringing home the fact that aside from Erik, she was alone. Her emotions for so long now had been begging for release, but she couldn't allow herself the luxury; the grief she kept bottled up inside herself would never end. She couldn't say she was happy at this moment in time, but she felt a tiny thrill of joy that she wasn't alone anymore, and in spite of the immediate danger, she was content.

It grew quiet once again, and after waiting a few minutes, Erik gently removed her arms from around him and stepped back. The friendly touch of another had left him confused, and he moved away fgrom her with mixed emotions; uppermost being a strange sense of loss. He had tried to stay completely still, but the excitement of the moment, the sheer strangeness of it, had started a shaking in his limbs which Louise had felt.

"Are you all right?" She put a hand on his arm, and he neatly moved away, putting a safe distance between them.

Her concern only confused him more, and he pretended not to hear. "They are gone- for now. They're being siphoned off to stop the republic from pouring through the weak points in their defenses, and we should be all right for a while," his voice hoarse, as he fought to return to normal- normal for him anyway.

He picked up the lantern and took her by the elbow. "Whether you wish it or not, we are returning to my home."

They had begun walking, and her glance was bashful as she looked up at him. "I was on my way back, Erik," she said quietly.

He kept his eyes straight ahead. "I went first to the house." How to explain what he felt when he found his front door open. Relief that she had not been trapped there, and dismay that she had escaped from him. But to think that she actually returned on her own?

"I _had _to get out. You were gone, and I was nearly out of food." She looked up at his profile- a black expanse giving away nothing of the man's thoughts. "I wasn't g-going to come back, but I changed my mind." She lifted the bag where she had tucked inside, the food which would last them for a few days.

"Why?"

She shrugged and said honestly, "There was nowhere else to go. Besides, I didn't know what happened to you, and if I left without ever finding out...it...it would haunt me. I was going to try and search for you." Without knowing the reason why, she told a small lie. "But look!" She held up the bag. "I bought us some food! Enough for a few days."

He glanced down at her. "Bought?" he uttered scathingly. "Why would you buy what could just as easily be stolen?"

Disappointed at his reaction, she nevertheless said tartly, "Because there are more thieves now than things to steal, that's why!"

He snorted. "Only if you are a poor thief, Louise." He regarded the lantern in his hand with chagrin. "This is all the kerosene I have, child. What possessed you to take it?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, _I_ don't know... Because it's very dark down here?" she said with a glint in her eye. "You may see as well as a cat, but I don't!"

"Nevertheless, at the moment it is irreplaceable. A candle would have done just as well." He shook the lantern. "Three quarters full. I will have to put this in a place where you cannot reach it. A high shelf should suffice." He looked down at her from his towering height, his words softened by a smile she couldn't see, but knew to be there just the same.

"I give you my word, friend. I won't touch it," she promised him as the house slowly revealed itself from the murk. "But you must give me yours to never disappear again."

He paused in the act of opening the door, his hand falling back to his side. Friend? Surely he had not heard her correctly. No one ever called him that. Other things, certainly- terrible things. Demeaning things. Even the daroga hadn't classified him as such. For the girl to call him that, would mean he had acted in her best interests- not used her to advance his own. He had ogled her nakedness while she was helpless in his bed. Nearly _touched _her. Friend? He snorted in vexation. The girl was delusional.

Louise watched him curiously. With Erik she never knew what he was thinking, but he soon had the door open and she sighed in relief stepping over the threshold. The irony didn't escape her. After searching frantically for a way out of these confining walls, she found herself within them once more. And content to be so. She knew intuitively that Erik wanted her here, either because he still didn't trust her not to give away his location, or for a reason he wouldn't admit even to himself. But it was enough.


	8. Chapter 8

Louise started frying a little of the meat for their supper while Erik built a fire from scraps of wood, before adding the last of the kitchen chair into the growing flames, and sat back on one heel, his injured leg stretched stiffly out in front of him. At this rate they would soon be sitting on the floor. They had the luxury of one fire per day and he would keep it carefully banked until the next, when he would build her another. Every so often, he would cease the never-ending hunt for food, and search for fuel to burn, roaming as far away as the Bois de Boulogne. He had a fairly good sized stack of kindling and small limbs he had brought back to the house, but he would soon have to go again and take the girl with him. She required sunshine and fresh air, more so than his thin frame did.

He looked askance at her. The chit could gather some of the wood and help keep herself warm for a change. She always gravitated toward the heat like a flower in spring forces its way through the soil toward the sun. He snorted. She was there before he could get to his feet, a blanket wrapped snugly around her frail shoulders, and he was quite sure if he didn't move aside willingly, she would push him out of her way. Luckily, with the arrival of May, the temperature had moderated a bit in the cellars. It was no longer icy, merely cold. She sliced bread and laid a piece beside the fried meat and boiled carrots on each plate, proud that she had provided their supper. Because they were down to one chair now, their meals were eaten in the parlor, which was fine with Louise- it was warmer there. As they ate she listened raptly while he related to her what happened to him nearly three days before. When he told her about the little girl in the cell with her mother, Louise was horrified.

"They would have _shot_ the child? But why?"

He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. His leg pained him. He had cleaned it on returning home, and bound the edges of the wound tightly together, but it would no doubt need stitches. He could also feel sores beginning to bloom on each cheekbone. His skin was often a source of irritation for him, and lately he had kept it covered for far too long. His hand wearily massaged the tight band of muscles at the base of his neck.

"They were more than willing to execute your friend, were they not? And it would have been your fate as well." He sighed, looking at her woebegone face, and softened his words a little. "I do not think even they would go so far as to murder a small child. The girl and her mother were unfortunately herded in with the rest. They are most likely once again on the streets, and living precariously day by dreary day. Does _that_ satisfy you, young Louise?"

His sarcasm was lost on her as she nodded and speared another piece of meat, popping it into her mouth and chewing slowly- savoring it. "Mm. It's good, isn't it?"

His eyebrow quirked beneath the mask as he watched her curiously. "Opposed to what?"

She looked up in exasperation. "Have you never enjoyed a meal?"

"I _enjoy_ music, books, architecture. But food?" He shook his head. "When I must, I eat, but I take no pleasure in it."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Someday I'll fix you apple tarts like my mother used to make. I watched her often enough, and if I had the ingredients, I'm sure I could fix them just as she did. You'll change your mind then."

"I highly doubt that," he sniffed, and Louise fell silent.

After dinner, she stood and took her dish to the kitchen. Erik got stiffly to his feet and followed her, and as he approached the sink, she saw him wince. She gestured to his torn trouser leg. "I noticed that before. How did it happen?"

He set his plate down and said in a tight voice, "Some took serious issue with me pilfering their dinner." He shrugged and his eyes skittered away from hers. "They chased me as though I had taken Grandmere's silver, and I fell over one of those blasted street barricades. I caught my leg on something sharp and tumbled ignominiously down the other side."

Louise had a difficult time picturing the man tumbling anywhere- he could not only see like a cat, but moved as one. "Let me look at it." She patted the chair. "Sit down and roll up your trouser leg."

He stared at her horrified, and shook his head vigorously. "No."

"Don't be silly. I can help, but I need to see it, Erik."

"No," and he crossed his arms over his chest and tried to stare her down.

Most times, that predatory gaze would have been cause for terror; Erik was intimidating, but contrarily, she felt a laugh bubbling up now, and wisely resisted its pull. His moods could be quicksilver and dangerous. At the moment though, he reminded her of nothing more than a very large, albeit, a very odd child refusing to see reason. But Louise dug in her heels, prepared for a battle. She didn't know yet how far Erik could be pushed before he left merely scary behind and moved into fearsome territory. She would rather not die of fright, but his leg could become infected if it wasn't already. She thought him illogically stubborn and felt her impatience rising. "You helped me when I was injured. Isn't that what friends do? _Help_ each other?"

Ah. That word again. Friend. She enjoyed bandying it about, and he felt the sneer twisting his upper lip. He sighed mournfully, and again Louise was tempted to laugh. Leave it to Erik to take issue with something like this, and blow it out of proportion.

He cleared his throat and stared at his worn shoes, knowing he was going to have to let her look at it. The blasted girl could be stubborn when she wished, but perhaps it would be better if he let her examine it. The wound was on the back of his leg and difficult for him to see. He already ran the risk of infection from neglect; his pride needn't lose him a leg.

"Very well," sounding for all the world like a foreign potentate granting a boon to a lowly supplicant. He turned the chair around straddling it, and gingerly sat down, his thin back to her. He glanced up, and she heard a different note in his voice. "Louise...I must warn you- I am not the best looking fellow in the world," her pointed stare made him stutter a bit, "a-and it extends to the rest of me."

She was already kneeling at his feet and gently rolling up the dirty trouser leg to his knobby knee. She folded the material back and huffed at his words. "None of us are put together the way we would like, Erik. I'm certainly not." She grinned up at him. "But I won't say anything unkind if you do not."

He nodded dumbly, not certain of the girl's meaning- levity wasn't his strong suit. How could it be? There had never been anything at all humorous in his life before, and the gentle give and take of a relationship was almost beyond his capacity.

Privately she thought him overly melodramatic- he had a flair for it she had discovered, but when the whitish-gray flesh of his skinny leg was revealed, she bit back a cry. The skin normally concealed from her view had the pallor seen on many of the corpses now lying in the streets of Paris. And his leg was so very thin she couldn't imagine how they supported his tall frame, even as gaunt as he was. Her hands were gentle though as she peered at the deep tear on the back of his leg.

"It needs cleaned, a-and I'm not sure, but stitches also. At least the wound doesn't appear to be corrupted. I've seen what _that_ looks like." At his nod, she looked at him doubtfully. "But I've never stitched anyone."

He was becoming very uncomfortable with her fingers lightly gripping his leg, her thumb inadvertently stroking the cool flesh and making him squirm a bit. It felt nice. _Too _nice. He closed his mouth with a snap, for his lips had parted at the novel sensation. "I would have spared you this, but needle and thread were both sadly lacking in that cell," he said stiffly, and began to roll down his trouser leg until she stopped him.

"What are you doing?" she scolded. "I said I never stitched anyone before. I didn't say I would not." She got to her feet with the inherent grace he admired in one so young, and put out a hand to stop him from rising. "I'm going to boil some water and gather the materials I need. _You _will show me how it is done. All right?"

He could only manage another nod, resigning himself to her care whether he wished it or not. She set water to heat, and at his direction, assembled everything she would need, including the smelly salve he had used on her shoulder. All the while she held at bay the uneasy notion of running a needle through someone's flesh. But really...how difficult could it be? She was acquainted with sewing, and her mother had always complimented her on her neat rows of small stitches. Yes, she thought bracingly, her youthful confidence reasserting itself. I most certainly can do this.

* * *

"Louise! Answer me! Are you all right in there?" and rapped impatiently on the bath room door.

She stood up on weak legs, wiping vomit from her chin with a shaking hand and pulled the chain on the toilet. She splashed cold water on her face and rinsed out her mouth.

"Louise!" Erik called once more, agitation threading his voice. He had drawn air into his lungs for another shout, when the door opened slightly, and he let it out in a sigh of relief_, _her wan face peeping through the crack at him. He eyed her carefully. "Better now?" and she nodded tiredly, knuckling one eye. "Come out then."

She nodded again, and walked on fragile legs to the sofa, sitting down carefully as one does after a long illness. She looked up at him as he hovered over her. "I'm all right now. You should get off that leg," she murmured, glancing down at her hands clasped in her lap to stop them from shaking.

It started out all right. She washed the ragged cut with soap and water, being as gentle as she could. She had no wish to cause him more pain, but that is exactly what she did as her hands started to tremble holding the threaded needle in one hand. Erik sat still on the kitchen chair, the back of his leg bared. Her first stitches were large and messy. She glanced quickly at him as he clutched the back of the chair tightly with both hands. She had to give him credit- he never made a sound, but the muscle in his leg clenched every time the needle entered his skin.

She gulped nervously, feeling the first licks of nausea. "I'm hurting you. I'm s-sorry," and dabbed at the blood dripping down his leg.

"I've been hurt before," he said dismissively and bowed his head, taking a better grip on the chair back, his knuckles bone white. "Just get on with it," he growled through gritted teeth.

And she did, working on his leg by stint of will only, her mind rebelliously returning to the Place de Madeleine and the bodies stacked one upon the other, their discolored flesh putrefying in the warm weather. She remembered her first thought looking at the dead; it wasn't pity for their grisly end- it was revulsion for what they had become. A disgusting _thing _which could no longer talk or reason- merely an object now that inspired fear and loathing. She was just able to put the last stitch in his pallid skin, before clambering to her feet and reaching the bath room where she emptied her stomach, retching miserably.

She glanced over at him with a feeble smile. "I don't know what happened. I was fine one minute and then my stomach began to hurt." She looked apologetically at him, still a little queasy, and gestured to his leg. "I need to bandage that. I-I f-feel better now." She moved to stand and Erik put a cold hand over hers and patted it awkwardly.

"Already done." He had changed into fresh clothing, and raised the trouser leg briefly to show her the neat white bandage. He regarded her with a warm light in his yellow eyes; to Louise, the look was unfamiliar. She couldn't recall ever seeing it before. "You did well."

"No," she whispered. "I hurt you. I didn't do well at all," she replied, near tears.

"Maybe so," he shrugged negligently, "but at least the wound is closed and it will heal." His thin lips quirked into one of his ghastly smiles showing sharp white canines as he observed the color returning to her face. If ever a grin could be called wolfish, she thought, and shuddered. "Are you cold, child?" She shook her head, as another chill sliced through her, and Erik hooked the blanket never far away from the girl, and slung it around her shoulders.

"You did me an even greater service, Louise."

She glanced up at the hesitancy in his voice and snorted. "I finally finished it and left you alone. Tell the truth though. You could have done a much better job than I, couldn't you?"

He shrugged one thin shoulder and sat down in his chair. "Of course. But I have always looked after myself," he shifted in his seat, stretching out his sore leg, "so it is strange indeed to find a young lady such as yourself, willing to touch that which has forever been, ah...for lack of a better word- _untouchable_."

Louise immediately dropped her eyes from his. She had been repulsed by his corpse-like skin, the very look of it reminding her of the bodies near the church. She cleared her throat self-consciously, her gaze settling everywhere except on Erik. She stared at the wall above the fireplace. "What about your parents? Surely they cared for you?" She wondered if he would even answer her.

He said nothing for a full minute, and the silence stretched out between them, until Louise imagined it to be a thin band ready to snap. "The man and woman who _spawned _this," and his fingers unfurled gracefully beside the mask, "had as little to do with me as possible. I'm sure the only joy where I was concerned, began and...ended with my conception," he said quietly. "They gave me a wide berth from the time I was born, and my mother always made sure I wore my mask, Louise. She would throw it at me sometimes. I finally came to realize the favor she did me. Getting me to admit to myself that the mask was my friend- my _only _friend. Which was a good life lesson for me. There came a day when she had me hitch the mare to the buggy and drive us into the countryside five miles from my home in Rouen. She gave me a handful of francs, a loaf of bread and some advice." He leaned back against the sofa, and closed his eyes, shutting out her pitying gaze, but he continued nonetheless.

"My parents were an ordinary couple, wanting nothing more than an ordinary family. What they received were a number of still births before I arrived- babies so deformed they never drew breath. Imagine their grief and horror when I was born- and managed to thrive."

"Your face?"

"Yes. Pray you never see it."

"What advice did she give you?" Louise whispered, wondering what her parents may have done with her had she been deformed at birth. No, she decided. They would have loved her regardless, never realizing in her youthful innocence how frail and inadequate the human spirit could be.

He raised a hand to the mask and she fixed her gaze on those preternaturally long fingers that were imbued with a deceptive strength. She likened them to the web of a spider; thin and delicate to the eye, but strong and capable of great resiliency.

"Why, it is obvious, child, is it not? She suggested a sideshow would be a fitting occupation for me. I was not to come back- ever, as I was no longer welcome in her home. From that point in time I was alone." His calm voice uttering such desolation in such an off-hand manner chilled her. "She left me beside the road, Louise- I was ten years old."

"I-I cannot believe they would abandon their own son," but a tiny voice inside her slyly questioned what was so terrible beneath that piece of black linen that would drive away one's own flesh and blood? A shiver went down her spine at what was sitting in the room with her, and once again she was ashamed.

He shook his head absently. "Not _they. _Oh no, not they. My mother was by then a widow, and blaming me for my father's untimely demise. Apparently seeing his unnatural son every single day, drove him into an early grave. I was taught all the basics one teaches their children from the beginning of life- how not to soil oneself, and to manage a knife and fork without making too much of a mess, and it was accomplished as quickly as possible so they weren't required to do so. I learned my letters when I was four years of age, was given music instruction at the same time on the piano and violin, since I couldn't be kept away from my mother's upright in the parlor. They had no idea where I received my thirst for knowledge." He snorted and ran a hand through his straight black hair. "I'm sure they never considered it a God-given talent- quite the opposite, no doubt.

"My father was a master mason- my mother had no specific talents, although she was quite proficient on the piano. She was also a very proud woman, so naturally she was ashamed of her only child. She didn't have the luxury of boasting about her one chick- she had to hide him away just as one would conceal a dirty little secret." He sighed and his slash of a mouth tightened. "But for the most part, they left me alone. I think they viewed me as a demon or...or sprite. Possibly a changeling- people in Normandy often believed in such things- I saw it often enough in my parents' eyes." He looked at her then, and to his credit, the old pain remained tucked out of sight. "They were terrified of me, but my father's fortuitous escape left her alone with her monstrous son. And that would never do."

He was surprised when her hazel eyes filled with tears; those beautiful eyes capable of changing colors from moment to moment, much like a chameleon changes its color to blend and take on the shades of its surroundings. But they managed to show her emotion so readily- every hurt dealt her, and every pain, even the harm done to a very ugly, very lonely boy so long ago. He felt nothing for that frightened child he had once been, but how could _she_ possibly understand the soul numbing terror of standing beside a desolate country road with nowhere to go? The face of a demon protected from a hostile world by a simple piece of cloth; forced to put one foot in front of the other and walk away from what was hated yet familiar. He conveniently forgot that the girl beside him had been cast adrift as well.

But his mother had performed one last service for him. She had allowed him the luxury of needing no one. He was not subject to the follies of other men- he was completely self-sufficient and would remain so.

"Do not waste your tears or pity on me, Louise. I no longer require them and haven't for years." He stood up abruptly and left her sitting there. She heard the quiet snick of the door to the empty room closing, and knew she would be alone for the rest of the day.

* * *

"Why, they have already destroyed the Tuileries Palace, you buffoon! And fired many of the buildings in the rue de Rivoli as well. Delescluze was behind much of it. Before he was killed, he wanted to obliterate as much as could be accomplished before we were overrun- which could be any day now. But hear me, Laurent- we will rally at another place and time. Of _that, _you may be sure."

His companion ran a hand through his greasy hair and glanced around hurriedly. "Reprisals are stepping up. They offer no quarter, especially after the archbishop and those other poor bastards were lined up and shot in the prison yard." The man nervously lowered his voice. "Garnier's unfinished theatre in the ninth arrondissement has stores of powder in the cellar- any idea what they are going to do with it all? Well, _I_ know. It will soon follow the rest of Napolean's monuments and end up a very large hole in the ground. Why do you still believe in the socialist order, eh, Jules? It is a lost cause now and to think as you do will only lead to death, and I would rather it wasn't my own-" Their voices faded as a deeper shadow in the gloom of the alley slipped away into the night.

Erik had known about the old palace being set ablaze. All over Paris, the Commune was razing as much of the city as they could manage, pulling down monuments and buildings, lining up its citizens, and through Communard gunsights, ruining even more lives. His eyes settled on what was left of the magnificent Hotel de Ville across the street; it was nothing but smoking rubble now, along with the soaring and beautiful Church of Saint-Eustache, an architectural masterpiece if there ever was one. He felt an actual ache in his chest at the thought of such beauty callously destroyed, and knew they wouldn't be the only victims of this mindless destruction turning Paris into a wasteland.

He hurried his steps, making plans as his long legs carried him onward. His hunch concerning the barrels of gunpowder stored below the opera house was indeed coming to pass; there was enough of it to blow the theatre sky high if they so wished. Garnier's building was a solid example of the excesses of the ruling class. Commissioned as it was by Napolean the third, the Commune wanted nothing more than to erase the last vestiges of that regime, of which his opera house was the latest shining example.

He had not chosen sides when this madness began- he wouldn't now. Being the outsider that he clearly was, he well knew that neither side would wish to claim _him _as a compatriot. He had only ever wanted to be left in peace- to help finish the theatre and live vicariously through the performances on its majestic proscenium stage.

But he knew Louise could no longer stay in the cellar. It was far too dangerous for him to allow it. Grimly, and with haste, he made his way back to the theatre.

* * *

"_Oh_! Blast!" she sputtered, as she wrung out her other dress in the icy water and hung it to dry from the back of the kitchen chair. She rubbed her numb hands together, working the feeling back into them. Erik had taken one look at how red and chapped they were, and insisted she use a little of the salve on them and it helped. Her underthings, hanging in the bath room, were draped over the tub; there was no help for it but to hang them practically under his nose. Except for a few snide comments and annoyed sighs, he said nothing more. The cellars always damp, she dragged the wooden chair closer to the still warm fireplace, hoping to speed the drying process. She wasn't certain what Erik did with his clothes; maybe he washed them in that oily looking lake of his, she thought evilly. However he did it, they were always relatively clean. He was no stranger to soap and water.

As she worked, she thought about the last few days. They had rubbed along together tolerably well, eating the food she collected on the day he escaped from the cell. He had pointedly asked her how she acquired it.

Louise looked up at him one morning from the sofa, where she sat repairing the tear in his trouser leg. She had insisted on sewing his clothes as well as hers and Erik at last gave in. "For if I do not, you will beat me over the head with it endlessly, won't you?" he had snapped in exasperation.

She glanced up at him now. "I already told you. I bought it," and she ducked her head, working with a concentration he found suspicious.

"Mm. So you said...so you said," he murmured. He sat down in his chair, crossing his legs, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin- which to Louise meant he was going to get the truth out of her, Erik-style. His index finger went to his upper lip and stroked it thoughtfully. "Now be kind enough to tell me how you really acquired the food, child. Not this fairy tale you cooked up and served to me cold." He waved a languid hand at her. "You didn't have enough francs for that veritable feast you lugged back here," and he proceeded to watch her face closely for the lie.

"You were not offering payment in other ways, were you, Louise?" The words were spoken in the soft, precise way that was curiously Erik, but his eyes. She swallowed hard. Oh, his eyes. She would never get used to them. They could go from mildly inquisitive to frightening in a matter of seconds.

She dredged up some indignation and hurt. So he assumed she would trade her maidenhead for food? "Why do you always enjoy thinking the worst of people? Of...of me? And why would I stoop that low now when I wouldn't before?" She was gratified to see him drop those devil's eyes of his momentarily. But not for long.

He raised them to hers again, and stabbed a finger at her. "You never answered _my_ question. Why is that?"

She huffed loudly and gave him a dirty look. "Oh, very well," and took a deep breath. "Are you familiar with the Comte de Chagny?" She said it with no small amount of pride.

Erik heard the admiration in her voice and felt a stirring of resentment. He had known of de Chagny, but of course had never met him. "I am aware of the comte, yes. But what does he have to do with some bad apples and a stringy piece of meat?"

She glanced severely at him, his sarcasm stinging a little, and proceeded to tell him how she met Philippe de Chagny. He could see the beginnings of hero worship in the girl's eyes, and contrarily decided to nip it in the bud. He had no qualms sullying the comte's reputation. None at all.

"He is a well known lecher, Louise. You are wasting your time thinking him worthy of your high regard."

She had set her sewing down and looked hard at him. "He was grateful, Erik, that's all, and I think you should at least appreciate his generosity- we're eating the food he more or less provided!"

He said nothing as he jumped to his feet and went to the fireplace and started poking at the smoldering fire with sharp jabs. Finally he turned around and observed her from glittering eyes. "_He _didn't provide you with anything. You did that yourself. Do not make him into something he is not!"

"I thought you would be pleased!" she declared hotly. "It was more than we had, and it cost me nothing."

"Oh? I think you would be surprised at the high cost he would exact from you were you to continue an acquaintance with him, silly girl!" he sneered.

Louise sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. She thought he was being unreasonable over a chance meeting of someone she would more than likely never meet again. Which the girl considered unfortunate; she remembered again the comte's serious blue eyes and courtly manners. It was a treasured memory for her, and she didn't have very many of those. He had been kind to her, and she lay in bed at night replaying the meeting over and over, changing it a little to suit her fancy. She was wearing a pretty dress, nearly the same color as his eyes, and her dark curls were pulled away from her face with a jeweled clip, cascading down her back clean and shining. He had bent over the small hand she held out to him, and he placed his well cut lips just so... It pained her to speak of it and have Erik reduce it to something sordid. A part of her had realized from the start that he would do just that, and she resented him heartily for it.

He noticed the blush suffusing her cheeks and wondered at its cause. Louise looked at his stiff posture and narrowed eyes, and realized the masked man could very well work himself into a righteous fury. Over what, she wasn't sure, but she needed to unruffle his male feathers and not allow him to sulk. Once his mood changed for the worse, he would take himself off somewhere, and she would become nervous, remembering how he disappeared for nearly three days. She was always cognizant of that fact.

She put aside her acrimony, and rose to her feet, wondering if it would always be this way with him- she had stepped early into her adult shoes, while Erik at times regressed, and stubbornly remained in the adolescent's. He could be very wise and clever, but just as quickly revert emotionally to childishness. Walking over to him, she reached for his hand. As usual, his first reaction was to snatch it away as though her touch burned. Part of her was amused by his stand-offish behavior, but she was still exasperated with him. Apparently he was much more discerning in who was given the privilege of touching him.

Louise refused to take no for an answer and tried again. This time he allowed it and she grasped his fingers gently in hers and sighed. "Honestly, you needn't be so jumpy around me! I mean no harm."

His hand was perfectly still in hers, lying there thin and cold. "Well, of course you mean no harm, Louise," he said indignantly. "After all, what can _you _do to _me_?"

It was laughable that she considered him to be frightened of her. Leery, yes. But fear her? He only feared _his _reaction, and to deny the pleasurable feelings she brought with her touch, meant keeping the girl at a safe distance. Which was difficult at best- Louise continued to put her hands on him- and he liked it only too well.

She sighed again, tired of banging heads with him. Insufferable man! "Let's not argue, all right? It doesn't really matter. I'll never see the comte again." She took pity on him and let go of his hand. "Still friends?"

He shrugged and cleared his throat, her nearness once again causing a welter of emotions. How could he crave the touch of her hand, and at the same time fear it? He was becoming weary, having to think of another's well-being all of the time. "If you wish to call it such."

Louise blinked. "I believe I do," she said stiffly.

"Fine," he replied stonily.

"Yes, fine," she sniffed. By silent agreement, they had dropped the subject of de Chagny, and after some awkward moments, put it behind them.

Her washing now completed, she took a turn around the parlor, wishing there was more to do in Erik's little home. To her young mind, time on her hands was the worst part of this conflict, and boredom set in quickly. Without conscious thought, her steps led her to the empty room again, where she had often gone when Erik disappeared for a while. She stared at the wall, chewing on her lower lip as she studied it for hairline cracks or indentations.

She was certain he had a door hidden in the wall and a room just beyond. She glanced once behind her and listened closely. Satisfied, she carefully ran her hand down the wall.

* * *

As he entered the opera house by the rue Scribe gate, he reluctantly admitted to himself that there was another reason for removing the girl from his home. She was entrenching herself bit by bit into his life, and he couldn't allow it to continue. To become emotionally dependent on another after years of being alone would never do, but he pushed away the feeling of dread which stole over him from the idea of her leaving. Nevertheless, he wouldn't allow her to be blown to pieces along with the theatre. She would have to go.

Silently he entered his home, and the first thing to greet his eyes was her laundry lying on the floor near the fireplace. He wouldn't miss this particular habit of hers, his lip curling in distaste. But he cocked his head, wondering why she wasn't using the chair as she normally did. The garment wouldn't dry that way. Feeling a prickle of unease, he made a hasty search of his quarters, ending up in the only place left- and found the door to the torture chamber wide open.

* * *

**A/N If this was a movie, we would already be calling Louise many, _many_**** derogatory names. Hasn't she ever watched A Nightmare on Elm Street or Halloween? Stay out of that spooky house, girl. Leave that closed door _alone_. But of course she never heard of them- this _is _after all, 1871 ;)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N This chapter deals in part with a darker Erik than some of you may be used to.**

* * *

She stood in the middle of the small hexagonal space, turning in a slow circle, mouth hanging open as she stared at the incongruous sight of a room made entirely of mirrors. The glittering walls were taking the meager light from the lamp, and throwing it back at her, mimicking her every little movement and duplicating it. She had never seen such a thing outside of a practice room; to find it in a room far below the theatre was baffling. Yet it really shouldn't surprise her. A house in the bowels of the opera house was possible in Erik's world- why not a mirrored room? It was the oddest sensation to see her reflection frowning back- an army of Louise's all struck in the same pose, fingers of both hands all vying for space, tightly shoved as they were against her lips. She winced, seeing a hundred young girls with lackluster brown hair and thin necks, eyes wide and shadowed with hunger. They were all clothed in limp brown dresses, and feeling a moment of dizziness, she slammed her eyes shut on the disturbing image.

Opening the door to the room of mirrors had turned out to be just as simple as the one in front of the house, but it had taken hours of fruitless searching looking for what had been hidden in plain sight. Armed with the knowledge of how the other door worked, it was only a matter of time before she found the slight depression that when pressed, smoothly opened it.

This room, like the one preceding it, was empty of furniture and all of the odds and ends that made anyone's house a home. It was obviously incomplete like the rest of Erik's odd little house- a work in progress, but stalled for the moment and awaiting the finishing touches.

She did a pirouette, pretending she wore a white gauze skirt, and laughingly watched as all of the Louises moved together in complete synchronization. As she spun, she spied a black hole in the rough ceiling and came to a halt. Walking closer, she knew she wouldn't be satisfied until she explored the yawning opening which beckoned to her, and whispered silently of untold secrets and hidden treasures. Perhaps it led to the opera house upstairs, and she could see the wonders which Erik hoarded like a miser does his gold. Glancing around, she hurried from the room and grabbed the chair in front of the fireplace, dislodging her dress from its back in the process.

Returning to her discovery in the room of mirrors, she planted the chair beneath the hole and climbed up on it. With an exasperated sigh, she regarded the opening which remained tantalizingly out of reach by a foot or more, racking her brain for a way to bridge the gap. A solution finally presented itself, and hopping down, she made her way to the parlor and grabbed the large leather bound volume of Russian fables lying beside Erik's chair. Often he would sit and read for an hour or better- at least he did on those occasions he was actually still for longer than five minutes. Louise had felt privileged when he would translate bits of it aloud to her. Hefting the weighty book in both hands, she went back to the mirror room and set it on the chair, then clambered up once more.

"Oh, it works perfectly," she crowed, and prepared to hoist herself through the opening. With a sigh, she glanced at the lamp sitting on the floor, and wondered if there were some way she could take it with her. Wherever she was going would probably be as dark as the rest of the cellars, but with a last look of regret she left it behind. Louise stuck her elbows through the opening and was prepared to jump up, when a cold voice spoke behind her.

"Odd way to leave the house, child, wouldn't you say?" She let out a squeak of dismay and tumbled off the chair, right into his arms. His masked face was very close to hers, and with a shudder, she peeked into his eyes.

The rage she saw in them was terrifying, and her one thought was to appease him before the violence in that furious gaze lashed out at her. "I-I went looking for you earlier and found the d-door open and..."

He put her down, but didn't release her. His fingers instead curled tightly around her upper arms, pinching the scant flesh and she cried out in pain as he bent her over backward. "You are not a very practiced liar, Louise. No, not at all," he said conversationally, his anger spurring him on, her damn snooping driving a wedge between rational thought and the icy rage fast over-taking reason. His hesitancy over touching her was gone like smoke in a breeze, and she started to whimper as his hands slowly slid up her arms and came to rest around her neck squeezing lightly, teasing her with his ability to simply put an end to her life if he so chose. He bent down and whispered into her ear, "You were not invited to enter this room," his breath stirring the hairs at her temple. "I'm quite sure I would remember doing so if I had."

She finally found the courage to move, and her hands crept up to his thin shoulders, pushing at him with a strength born from desperation. Something was loose in the room; a capering, salacious imp bent on her destruction. Erik's breath was coming quicker, and his mouth was perilously close to hers. She wasn't sure which of them was shaking more, but she let out a squeal when he yanked her even closer to his gaunt frame.

"Why are you so naughty, Louise...hmm? I have cared for you unfailingly, have I not? And this is how you repay me? Through subterfuge and lies?" He pressed a cold hand to one of her cheeks. "Perhaps you need punished! Yes, that's it! You need a small reminder of who is in control here. Unfortunately, it is not you," and she could hear the smile creeping into his voice.

"Please, Erik. I am s-sorry. I was wrong. I know it now," and let out a sharp scream when his cold lips brushed against her neck. "Don't do this-" Her terror mounted, clogging her throat as she tried to stop his descent into madness.

"Hush now. Hush," he soothed, and pushed her up against the wall, as his hands took liberties with her that no one else had ever done. His lips were at her throat suckling the tender flesh of her neck before trailing down to her pulse point fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird, as she trembled uncontrollably in his arms. His lower body pressing her into the wall, his hands were free to roam at will, and they knew exactly where they wanted to go.

"I will not hurt you, Louise. Don't cry," he pleaded, despising himself all the while his desire for her raged hot and painful.

"I _hate_ you. I will always hate you for this-" Her words were whispered brokenly, but held a finality to them that at last got through to the cavorting beast running rampant inside of him. She had trusted him.

Moaning in shame and regret, he stilled and closed his eyes. "Louise-"

Frantic now to get away from him, she didn't hear the remorse or feel the loosening of his hands from her bruised flesh. Her mind was focused on one thing only- how to stop his onslaught. Her desperate fingers curled into talons beneath the edge of the mask and ripped it free.

Time shifted within her mind, the seconds frozen into a horrible tableau. She wasn't even aware of her panicked screams as she stared into the face of death. It was a nightmare visage come to ghastly life, as the thing which used to be her friend, let out a roar of pain and anger. He pushed her away instinctively, wanting only to flee now, and propelled the girl backward with such force, one foot was torn loose from her shoe. The horror was as yet before her eyes, imprinted there for all time... the noseless countenance of a living corpse, the flesh melted away, leaving a thin covering of pallid skin over the nasal bone. It was the terrifying visage of an animated corpse, appearing dead even longer than those wretched victims near the Madeleine had been, the flesh barely covering bones stretched and pulled torturously into a drumhead.

Her last thought before consciousness left her wasn't quite sane. I shouldn't have taken his book, she reasoned, as the back of her head connected with the wall.

* * *

She was standing by the duck pond in the Bois de Boulogne, tossing whole bread slices with abandon to the mother duck and her babies. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun casting shards of light over the water, and she grinned, watching them as they gracefully dipped their heads, scooping up the soggy pieces before they sank to the bottom.

"Louise! Stop that at once! Ungrateful child. That is our only food and you're wasting it!"

"No! I _won't_ stop! I'm so tired of bread, mama. I want chicken croquettes and apple tarts...croissants a-and milk, mama! Lots and lots of milk." She turned around and looked at her mother who was approaching her slowly. "Let the ducks have it," she said stubbornly, her mouth set in a mulish pucker.

"Give me the bread, Louise. _Now_." Her gaze was unsmiling as she regarded her daughter, her normally placid face sharp with censure. "You don't want me to get upset, do you? You know what happens when I get angry."

Louise shook her head and watched as her mother came closer, her light brown hair escaping her chignon, and soft tendrils of it blowing in the warm breeze. She was smiling now and the girl felt happy being with her mama again. She hadn't died after all, and Louise had not seen her broken body, bloody and unmoving in the middle of the street. It had been a terrible dream, that's all, but a frown wrinkled her brow as her mother drew near. The girl saw the whitish-gray skin of her mother's face- the jutting bones of her cheeks so abnormally high, and she started to back away. High keening noises escaped her mouth when her mother's straight nose was replaced with something quite different.

She began to scream in earnest when Mama held out a hand with unnaturally long fingers, her hazel eyes...no, her _yellow _eyes beseeching her daughter to stop screaming. "Louise?" she said in that beautifully pitched and beguiling voice. "Child? Don't be frightened. Don't be frightened, I beg you-"

The girl opened her eyes with a gasp, the ache in the back of her head making her nauseous. Erik's masked face swam into view, and she scrambled back on the sofa in panic, expecting his arms to once again try and claim her. "Don't touch me," she said faintly, never taking her eyes off of him.

He sorrowfully looked at her as he leaned forward with a cup in one hand. "I wish only to ease the pain I caused you. Let me help you."

The pain won out and she raised herself up, pushing his hand away when he moved to support her. He made a sound deep in his throat and timidly handed her the cup. With trembling fingers she clutched it and managed to swallow half of the bitter tonic.

"Erik has been a gentleman all of this time," he whispered to himself, "all this time-" He had listened to the girl crying desolately, and felt one of her small hands on his chest trying to shove him away. Her weeping finally worked its way through the anger which had twisted into a terrible desire. His considerable control had slipped badly, leading to this debacle.

Her thin body lying limply against the wall had galvanized him to action. Replacing his mask lest she awake and see him again, he had scooped the unconscious girl into his arms and carried her to the parlor, settling her onto the sofa. Kneeling beside her, his now gentle fingers examined the back of her head, disgusted with himself when he felt the knot there, the skin thankfully unbroken. He had fetched a blanket and covered her snugly with it, then placed the last few pieces of wood into the fireplace, before returning to the sofa.

He now regarded her wan face and his self-hate grew. "You will feel better soon, Louise." He forced his eyes to meet hers, knowing what he would see there. He wasn't disappointed. He got wearily to his feet and went to the fireplace where a small blaze had caught on the bits of wood. He savagely reached for their last kitchen chair, and took out his distress and self-loathing on it by smashing it against the wall. She watched his violent movements with suspicion, until he squatted and started collecting the pieces. She shivered as she stared at those thin hands; hands which until recently, had encircled her neck, and now fed the painted wood to the flames where it sizzled and popped.

He kept his eyes on the growing fire, having no wish to see the girl's accusatory and hostile gaze, but he could feel it scorching into his back. With any luck, they would soon be long gone from Paris. After tonight's events, it was imperative to get the girl away from the danger in the opera house- away from _him_.

He got to his feet and went back to her, noting the stiffening of her body as he approached. Slowly he reached out for the cup, and studiously avoided touching her, and spoke quietly, "I'm going to fix you some tea. Feeling warmer now?" and he indicated the fireplace and the nice blaze going there. Waiting for a reply, and getting none, he hurried on, "Our...our last chair, Louise. It's gone to a worthy cause, I dare say." When she obstinately remained silent, he cleared his throat and stood awkwardly for a moment, wishing she was already gone. "Uh, the tea first, I think, then we will...we will talk."

Her hooded eyes followed him from the room, unable in her present state of mind to notice his bowed shoulders or lackluster tone. She had looked at him earlier and saw those awful eyes filled with a gleaming avarice- felt his hot breath rasping excitedly against her ear, his desire for her very obvious, pressed as it was against her. She swallowed hard, her throat feeling raw from her screams at seeing the horror behind the mask. The sight was forever burned onto her retinas. She turned her head away and closed her eyes as weak tears clung to her lashes. Friend? A trembling had taken hold of her limbs and for once it wasn't from the cold of the cellars. No. Absolutely not. And she realized it was more than time to leave this dreary place.

When Erik returned with her tea, she was dozing lightly. She awoke when he moved the side table closer to the sofa and set the cup down on it. "Can you manage?" At her slight nod, he took a seat in his upholstered chair and watched as Louise carefully sat up and reached for the cup. "How is your head?"

"It hurts," and she took a sip of the hot tea. She couldn't find the nerve to meet his eyes, speaking to her lap instead. "I can't stay here, Erik. Not anymore...surely you realize that now?" She at last found the courage to look at him. "Please allow me to leave."

He was planning that very thing, but having it voiced by her caused a hurt that went deep. She was afraid of him now, and instead of the warmer feelings she had developed for him, they were back to her first days in his home, only much, much worse- she despised him as well.

He kept his tone even, knowing he had brought this on himself. Her hatred had been well earned. "You told me months ago that you had an aunt in Naples, yes?"

"My Tante Maria." She eyed him curiously. "Why?"

"Aside from...from recent events, it would seem an excellent time for you to go to her. The opera house is a powder keg waiting for one word to light the fuse. It's dangerous for you to be here."

"In more ways than one," she muttered to herself.

"Yes," he agreed, Erik's uncanny hearing picking up what wasn't meant for his ears. "As soon as you are able, we will depart for Orleans."

"Orleans? Why there?"

"Transport anywhere in this confounded city is out of the question- just walking out may prove hazardous for us. It is nearly seventy miles to Orleans and we will no doubt have to walk part of the way," he rubbed his bony chin thoughtfully, "at least until I can procure a horse for our use. You will board the train there and travel by rail for part of the way to Lyons, then coach for a goodly distance. It will be a long journey, Louise, but necessary." He turned away from her and added wood to the fire.

"You've been there before?"

"I lived there for a time. I once did building restorations as well as constructing houses for intolerant and dull minded people." He paused and stared at something only he could see. "Well, I did until word leaked out that some_thing _was doing business among the good people of Orleans. Aside from the morbid curiosity, my business suffered for it, and I decided Paris would suit me better." He dropped his eyes from hers and rose to his feet. "If the theatre ever does get finished, I will end my days here. I seem to be what others have always maintained- something to be avoided."

Louise said nothing. Her head ached and she felt sore from his clutching hands. She had done little more than poke her nose where it didn't belong- Erik had done the rest. He was a product of the cruelty exacted on him by his parents and many others, she well knew. But that didn't excuse him for his deplorable behavior- she felt no pity for him now.

"I will be ready whenever you wish to go. The sooner, the better, I think," she said quietly.

The masked man nodded as he stood up, raking a hand through his tousled hair. "Rest for now. I will fix some dinner shortly. We should try and leave by tomorrow night- if your head is better." He paused a moment before he left the room and regarded her solemnly. "Louise, I...I..." He cleared his throat and tried again, but the apology sat stubbornly on his tongue, refusing to move. How does one ask forgiveness for such a transgression? For pawing her like some randy libertine with no thought expended on the girl's wishes? He drew air into his lungs and let it out slowly. "You won't ever see my ...my face again, I promise you."

He abruptly changed subjects. "It will take us some time getting out of the city, but if we are careful we should have little difficulty." Privately, he thought it could be harrowing getting around the French army. He would do a little scouting later tonight and find a viable route out of Paris.

She watched his retreating back as Erik went into the kitchen. His attitude had gone through a complete change from the man she had dealt with only an hour past, and to say he puzzled her, would be understating it a bit. Once again she had the distinct impression that she was dealing with different men at different times; _this _Erik was a caring, thoughtful man, the direct opposite of the aggressive and frightening individual seemingly intent on stealing her virginity.

His face. My God, his _face_. She could see that ruin in her mind's eye every time she looked at him- she had often wondered what the mask hid- the knowledge of it now was something she wanted to erase from her memory forever. Scrub it clean and forget the horror of it. But it needn't be an issue- if he were to be believed, she would never see it again. She could only hope that was true.

As her eyes started to drift closed, she thought about leaving Paris and joining her aunt in Naples. Her father's older sister, the siblings had been very close, and the few times she met Tante Maria were pleasant ones. It would feel odd though, leaving Erik and perhaps never seeing him again, and she was eager to do just that, but a tiny unacknowledged corner of her heart was already in mourning.

* * *

"All right, Louise?" he called over his shoulder as they crested the small knoll. She had turned back to see the last of her home, the city where she had been born and lived with her parents. Where she had hoped to become a famous dancer and win the accolades of an adoring public. Childish dreams, she snorted. If anything, her future more than likely held marriage to a law clerk or maybe a small landholder. And children no doubt. Her mouth turned down- the thought of motherhood did nothing for her.

With a bitter sigh, she turned around and answered him. "Yes. I'm all right. I was only saying goodbye."

"Once we get past Belleville, we will stop for the night. I'll give you something for the pain, and you may rest."

Her head _had_ begun to ache a little, but she had said nothing to him. "How did you know?"

He shrugged. "Because you are stubborn and won't admit to it." He said nothing more, but understood that aside from any lingering pain, she was melancholy. The girl was leaving her old life behind and walking into the unknown with a man she no longer trusted.

She fell into step beside him and clutched the wool coat closer to her throat. This morning upon awakening, she found it lying across the arm of the sofa. It was a dull blue and well worn, but it was better than what she'd had. She no longer inquired as to where he _borrowed _it; he never answered her and she no longer cared to know. But Erik had surprised her yet again. One moment she was terrified of the man, and the very next, grateful for some small kindness. His contradictory nature was dizzying.

She had thanked him stiffly for the coat, her pleasure subdued, and he turned away, continuing to gather supplies for their journey. "You'll have need of it where you are going," he said gruffly.

Sitting on the table was a leathery brown bag of sorts with a nozzle at the narrow end, and sporting a faded red cord the length of it. Louise pointed at it curiously. "What's that?"

He picked it up and handed it to her and she stroked a finger over the smooth leather. "It's called a zahato. Basque herders use them for water," he smiled his rare smile, "wine more often that not, but it's made from goatskin and lined with a goat's bladder."

It's shaped curiously," she said, holding it up and studying the narrow end.

"They drink from it a certain way...ah, what they call zurrust- um, to drink down in large gulps. You'll be using it as well." He watched her as she turned it over in her hands, thankful to have her actually speaking to him somewhat normally again. "I'll show you how the Basque and the Romani people use it. It's a good item to have when traveling. Empty, it doesn't take up much room, and full it has enough water...or wine for a few days."

She set the bottle down and glanced at him. "Have you been many places, Erik?"

"Yes," he said dismissively and continued packing the few things they were taking.

They headed southwest out of the city and aside from the bump on her head and some soreness, Louise felt good. Leaving was surprisingly easy. What troops they encountered were bivouacked for the night and exhausted- both sides. Getting past the sentries with the masked man was not nearly as nerve racking as it would have been were she alone; Erik had a way of moving that was ghost-like, and he instilled in her the need to follow suit.

The worst moment came when they reached the edge of the city proper and entered the Paris community of Belleville. The neighborhood was one of the staunchest supporters of the Commune and they both stepped lightly. A neat stone cottage sitting by itself, erupted into a flurry of barks as a large dog standing near the front door caught their scent. They were moving silently down the opposite side of the road when the animal broke into a run, heading straight for them. Erik dropped the cloth bag slung over one shoulder, and grabbed Louise by the arm, moving back from the road into the waiting shadows of the trees. He quickly stepped in front of her, and peeking from behind his back, she watched in fear as the thin Punjab lasso appeared magically in his left hand.

"Stay behind me," he said shortly, brooking no argument from the girl.

Added to the loud barks were the angry shouts of a man who had appeared on the front doorstep. "Here, you damned devil! Viens! Leo! _Leo!_ Come back here!"

Louise had unthinkingly grabbed on to the back of Erik's coat, bunching the material in both hands. If it bothered him, he never let on- his eyes remained locked on the hound, but she heaved a grateful sigh when the dog skidded to a stop and stared at them, a low growl emanating from him as he stood with massive head lowered, torn between them and his master's summons. One more irate shout, and the dog reluctantly turned and loped back to the house.

"A wise choice, my fine fellow," Erik murmured, his stance relaxing when man and dog disappeared into the house.

And now they were away from the last lights of Paris and moving southwest on the road to Orleans, the only sounds those of the wind soughing through the trees, and the soft cooing of doves settling in for the night. Darkness surrounding them, she glanced up at the tall man beside her and wondered, not for the first time, why he was doing this when he could have just as easily, washed his hands of her.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"You could have let me go alone." He looked down at her, his amber eyes intent on hers, and she continued rapidly, "I-I'm thankful that you are here, but...you didn't have to leave your home." Suddenly shy, she looked down at her feet. "Why are you?" Their relationship had changed since the night she went into the room of mirrors; where once they had felt comfortable around one another, Louise's suspicion and fear ruled instead. The curiosity over the strange room that got her into so much trouble, still remained, but now it would never be satisfied and Erik offered no explanation. She was hesitant to bring it up again.

They had called an unofficial truce, and their awkward moments had been many; Louise couldn't help but look over her shoulder whenever he stepped into the room, and the masked man took notice. He in turn made certain to give her a wide berth; her look of revulsion was plain, whether she meant for him to see it or not, and so they tiptoed around each other while readying for the journey. But now their wooden treatment of each other seemed to melt a little more with every mile they walked, until Louise was feeling more charitable toward her companion, although she hadn't forgiven him.

He stared at her for so long she became uncomfortable, his steps slowing until they both came to a halt beside the road. She met his look unflinching, and for the first time since viewing his unspeakable face, it wasn't an issue for her. He was simply Erik.

He shrugged and said stiffly, "It's not a great mystery. I have business to conduct in Orleans. The war has curtailed many of my activities, but this is as good a time as any, no? Why not see you there safely as well?" He cleared his throat and thrust his hands into his pockets. Louise hid a smile when he scuffed the toe of his shoe into the dirt, much like a young boy caught out by his mother. "That's all there is to it, so do not think I do this for your sake alone."

"No, Erik. I would _never _believe that of you," she replied, trying to keep the smile from her face, and failing. "All the same, thank you." They stood in awkward silence for a moment and she stared up at him, the moonlight giving his eyes an eerie shine- and felt the first stirrings of forgiveness.

* * *

**Coming up- Two for the Road.**


	10. Chapter 10

Once clear of Belleville , they made a camp of sorts in a pine grove situated beside a narrow stream. While Louise collected sticks for a small fire, Erik removed the curved zahato from his shoulder and filled it with fresh water then returned to their camp.

"You must be thirsty. Here, let me show you," and holding on to the red strap, he hoisted the bag above his head and tipped it over, his lips never once coming into contact with the nozzle. Louise watched silently as he drank, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed, every drop of water going neatly into his mouth, and she became eager to try it for herself. He handed it over to her.

"It doesn't look so difficult," she said, as she took it from him.

"Not difficult, no, but there is a knack to it. Here, let me-"

"I think I can manage," Louise said dismissively, and held it up as he had done. She opened her mouth in anticipation, upended the skin, and snorted when the contents went everywhere _except_ her mouth. She sputtered and gasped, blinking furiously as the cool water sprayed her eyes and went up her nose. She heard a shout of laughter and turned in surprise to her companion. It was a beautiful laugh; warm, pleasant- contagious. And completely unexpected.

His eyes shone with amusement. "That was _very_ clever of you! Drinking and bathing at one and the same time. The problem is, you didn't do either one very well."

Louise found herself laughing with him while swiping at her wet face. "Yes. I always have a plan! And most of the time it doesn't work, but you are in the right of it," she said ruefully, "there _is _a knack to it, and I should have listened to you." She shrugged out of her coat and wiped ineffectually at the water.

Erik, once again perfectly sober, took the coat from her and draped it over the branch of a nearby tree. "It's not all that wet. It will dry quickly." He poured some of the pain tincture into a cup and gave it to her, then knelt down and added more sticks to the fire. He cut his eyes up at her. "My amusement was had at the cost of your dignity, I'm afraid, but the look on your face was beyond price."

She quickly swallowed the bitter tonic and shyly looked up at him. "I like hearing you laugh," she said simply.

He cleared his throat self-consciously and stood up, reaching for the water skin. He walked over to her. "If you will allow me, I will show you how it is done so you may drink _safely_."

Louise stood stil as he approached her. It was hard to forget what took place only yesterday, but she knew it had to be put behind her now. She would watch him, and strive to do nothing to aggravate him. His descent into dangerous behavior had at first stemmed from anger, and _then _changed into something else. Erik must have sensed where her thoughts were going, for he halted a few steps away and regarded her carefully.

They had a long road ahead of them yet, and he needed to make her understand that she needn't fear him anymore. He would deliver the girl to Orleans and return as quickly as possible to Paris in the hope that the theatre would be spared. "You mustn't fear me, child. I make no excuses- my behavior was deplorable and will not be repeated. On that, you have my word- if you will accept it," he uttered quietly. "I don't wish for your hatred. I-I have had more than enough of that particular emotion my entire life."

Louise looked into his eyes and sighed in relief. She saw only the truth shining from them; if he had wanted to ravish her, he could have done so with impunity in the cellars and no one would have been the wiser. She had no one and he knew it. For months they had lived in relative harmony and virtual isolation with only each other to depend on. Well, she depended on _him_; Erik didn't need anyone. That he hadn't followed through with his intent yesterday afternoon when everything went so wrong, was a good sign of his innate decency, and she felt that perhaps she could breathe a little easier. Their close proximity below ground hadn't helped a bit, and with a small pang, she realized it was safer to be gone from there.

"I do accept it," she replied solemnly, knowing she had very little choice at the moment. "But before I become too parched, will you show me-?" She gestured to the goatskin in his hand.

He walked the rest of the way to her, and without touching the girl, placed it on one of her thin shoulders, and proceeded to teach her the rudiments of drinking from the skin. Once Louise slaked her thirst, she looked at the masked man in triumph. "I did it!" she said, pleased with her new-found talent.

His chuckle was rich and deep. "I had my doubts, but you have vanquished them quite nicely. Now go refill what you dumped on yourself."

After a supper of dried meat and potatoes baked in the hot coals of their campfire, Louise walked a distance from the camp and readied herself for the night. The walking had produced some sore muscles and tired feet, but nothing that wouldn't improve with more travel. She listened closely to the night sounds, the quiet and peace of the countryside after war weary Paris, balm to her spirit. She returned and settled beside the fire, and Erik handed her a steaming cup of tea.

"It is nearly the last of it, but I thought you might like something hot tonight. Tomorrow hopefully, we can buy a few things."

"Yes. That will be nice." She glanced at her masked companion, then at the glittering stars looking cold and infinitely remote. "It's a great adventure, isn't it? I mean to say, traveling by day and seeing different places- sleeping in the open like this."

His take on traveling was quite different from hers, but he said nothing for a moment, content just to be sitting companionably with her. Finally, "How is the pain now?"

"Better," and Louise felt the lump on the back of her head as she sipped gratefully at the hot tea, wrapping her chilled fingers around the cup. The night was cooling off after the heat of the day, but it was a pleasant change from the cold of the cellars. Erik sat down across from her, leaning back against a fallen log, and stretched out his long legs, crossing them negligently at the ankles. He stared pensively at the night sky.

Louise regarded the heavens and mouthed a prayer that her life was about to turn a corner into something better. It was long overdue. "Are you of the Catholic faith, Erik?"

"My...parents were. I am nothing."

She looked at him in shock. "But aren't you afraid of purgatory?"

He shrugged. "Who's to say that this isn't purgatory right now? This could be my own particular Hell and you are sharing it with me."

She snorted and looked around at the peacefulness of their surroundings. "It's not so very bad then, is it?" and her look was mildly accusing. "Be serious! Everyone must believe in their redemption. And if not that, the structure of religion has comforting symbols and practices. There is beauty and safety in its precepts."

"Yes, so much safety, you were in harm's way...how many times?" his derision painfully evident. "Your faith is admirable, but even the most pious man has doubts. There is a philistine and an atheist in us all. There is one inside of you, although I am sure you would not admit to it. Even _me_, Louise. Even Erik."

He nodded his head at the star filled heavens, then settled his yellow gaze on her. The effect of his masked face and nocturnal eyes out in the open was startling- it was as though a large predator had loped out of the woods to sit near the fire with her. "There are times though, I almost believe something else exists in the universe. _Almost. _And he cares not a wit for me," and abruptly tossed a few more pieces of wood into the fire. He leaned back and gestured to the sky. "That is Ursa Major. Right there," he said, pointing above their heads. "It is from the Latin and means great bear. The ancient Greeks associated the constellation with a beautiful maiden named Callisto, who while napping beneath an enormous tree in the forest, caught the roving eye of Jupiter, god of the heavens. He was smitten with her and they became lovers. From their union came a son, but Juno the wife of Jupiter, became jealous of the lovely Callisto, and to punish her, changed the girl into a...ah, into a...a b-bear."

He watched her rapt face and tender mouth, seeing her for what she was- a child. A child who's innocence he had nearly stolen. She had felt nice in his arms for those few scant moments, and in his anger, thought to steal a kiss from her. He nearly laughed. The gargoyle wanted a kiss. He was so starved for the touch of another, he had lost his head. He moaned in shame. His bloody hands and evil deeds nearly performed another atrocity- the sultana would have been proud of him. His mind filled with self-hate. "Rosy hours are gone now. They're gone-" he muttered.

"Erik?" Louise wondered at his grim slash of a mouth, and the sounds of distress issuing from his throat. His words had stuttered to a halt and he merely sat and stared at her- _through_ her. "Are you all right?"

His head snapped up and he savagely yanked his thoughts away from those days forged in hell. "She will not win. I _won't_ let her win," he whispered, his tormented eyes resting on the girl's face. "I am...I...I am s-" He dropped his head in confusion and stared into the flames. He had never apologized to anyone before.

When he at last glanced up at her, his eyes were bright with suffering. She reached a hand out to him, only to think better of it, and let it drop back into her lap. "Who won't win?" she asked him softly.

He shook his head. "I...it is...nothing," and dragged his gaze away from her, looking at the deep bowl of the sky again. With a shudder, he gathered up the loose threads of the tale. "Callisto's son, Arcas was...was adopted and became a hunter. One day while hunting deep in the forest, Callisto was overjoyed to see her son, and rushed toward him eagerly, but the man thought he was being attacked by a bear, and shot an arrow at his mother. Jupiter watching from above, saw the arrow meant to kill his lover, and stopped it from piercing her. To save mother and son from the wrath of Juno, he changed Arcas into a bear as well, grabbed them by their stubby tails, and hurled them both into the heavens so they could live peacefully among the stars."

Louise was enraptured not only by the story, but by the lulling quality of his warm and silky voice. She stared into the star strewn sky and looked with wonder at the constellation. "I see them! It's Callisto and Arcas." She clapped her hands and grinned in delight. "That was wonderful! You have a true gift, Erik. My father used to tell me stories when I was a child."

He had to smile at that. "Yes, such a very long time ago," he said gently.

Her sigh was wistful. "It sometimes feels like it. Cosette always loved a tale. She would have l-loved... she would have-"

He watched as her drowsy smile faltered then died and murmured quietly, "We will be on the road before daybreak. Time to sleep." He put more wood on the fire and stretched out beside it. "We should reach the village of Melun sometime tomorrow and can provision there. Does the thought please you, Louise?"

She smiled sadly in the darkness as she laid down across from him. Her grief for the loss of those dear to her, was sharp and poignant as she wandered further from her home and into a new life. "I look forward to it," as a lone tear slipped from between her lashes. The girl closed her eyes and knuckled them impatiently, all of a sudden exhausted, but stubbornly she thought of something nice.

A town tomorrow! A town with real food. Her mouth watered at the thought, as her hunger tried to pull her down into dreams of thick meaty stews and light as air pastries. Her lids were heavy with drowsiness, but a niggling thought from earlier in the evening wouldn't allow her to rest just yet.

"Erik?" she called softly.

"Yes?"

"I don't hate you." She waited for a response, and not receiving any, closed her eyes.

He heard her steady breathing and knew she had at last given herself up to sleep. "The unthankful heart discovers no mercies," he whispered. He turned away and slipped the mask from his face, and slowly put a hand to his ravaged features. "Thank you, Louise."

* * *

The afternoon was well advanced when they at last trudged into Melun. Louise begged for a few minutes to freshen her sweaty face and grubby hands, and impatiently Erik permitted it.

He turned and watched the girl as she hurried through her hasty wash. "_You _may fill it next time if you are going to bathe in it," he said irritably.

He took the skin and hoisted it onto his shoulder, while Louise picked up the food sack. "I only used a little," she said reasonably, "but I'll refill it. I don't mind." Erik abruptly turned and walked away in his mile eating stride, Louise hurrying to catch up, eager to explore the village.

It was on the small side as towns went, but there were several stores and Louise was excited to see a pastry shop sign above one of them. Erik for his part, wished only to find a livery in the blasted place and see about getting a horse, steal or buy, whichever came first. He was quite used to traveling on foot after years of wandering, but matching his long gait with that of the girl's was frustrating and time consuming. He kept turning his mind back to Paris, wondering anxiously if the opera house still stood. With every step, he called himself every kind of fool for leaving.

He was becoming out of sorts, wishing the girl already gone so he could return to Paris. But his mood wasn't caused by that alone. People. The variety that stared at him in avid curiosity, and after a second shocked look, dropped their eyes and hurried on. He abhorred the bright light of day, and the gawking stares he received from every direction.

"There's a patisserie just up the street. Might we go there first?" She was eagerly looking around at the neat little village with its sidewalks swept and free of clutter, buildings clean and bright, their walls whitewashed and cared for. She sighed, relieved to see the streets absent of bomb craters, and bodies lying like rag dolls flung there by a giant petulant hand, or the smoking rubble of homes gutted by fire. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No starving women or children with haunted eyes too big for their gaunt faces.

He tugged his cap down to his eyes and turned to her feeling the growing need to lash out at someone. The girl would do very well. "You have a one track mind and I find it tiresome. Your penchant for sweets is unbecoming and ridiculous, Louise. We have need of _food, _not frivolity. I suggest you remember that."

He turned away and quickened his pace, his thoughts becoming blacker with each step- each curious stare. He felt exposed and vulnerable beneath the bright blue sky, and wished only for the cool blessed shadows of evening. He was a night creature and craved the dark much like any nocturnal animal would- daylight only served to weaken him.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say something biting to him, but stopped herself just in time. His mood was already belligerent, and she had no wish to make it worse. She therefore followed him meekly into the butcher's shop, so used to Erik's sinister appearance, she never gave it a second thought anymore. The abnormal had become normal to her as long as she never had to see his face again. But suddenly their oddness was more readily apparent; men didn't usually wear masks, and young girls only went to town when their clothes were clean and starched, their hair neat and tidy. All activity came to a halt, as they observed the strange man and shabby girl approach the wooden counter.

"Monsieur?" The butcher whose name was Francois, looked nervously at the faceless man looming threateningly over everyone in the room.

"I need a few cuts of meat, the bacon there, and some of that beef," pointing with a skeletal finger to the case beside the counter. "A pound of each should do."

"I'll be surprised if Francois doesn't throw him out of here, Marta. Would you _look_ at him? Bold as brass, he is, and hiding his face. Why, do you think?"

Marta stared hard at the rigid back of the man, and shrugged her shoulders. "Alphonse said we were getting too much riff-raff from Paris." She looked at the drab girl beside the scarecrow, then back at the man and hissed, "They're a seedy pair, and he's just downright hideous."

Louise heard the loud whispers behind her and her face flamed. If she could hear them, she was quite sure Erik did as well. Which was proven when he turned to the two middle-aged women and gave them a slow appraisal meant to insult. "I assure you, madame, that the mask does not hide a handsome face anymore than a certain _lady's_ garment can mask a deplorable figure."

The women stared at him, mouths agape, shocked that a man, and a stranger at that, would mention a woman's unmentionables in a public place. "How dare you!" one of them cried, her bosom swelling in indignation. She regarded him disparagingly, while her companion gave a tug on her arm. "You are an ill-bred jackanapes and not fit to be among decent folk!" She turned to her friend then glanced at the butcher. "What kind of man hides his face in the light of day?"

The others were more sensible, and remained quiet, realizing that the man standing before them was not prone to listen to her rant without reacting to it. Which he was not, as he sidled closer to the woman, forcing her to take a hasty step backward. "What _kind _of man?" his voice softly menacing, and Louise felt a glimmer of sympathy for the woman. "Why, the kind that tends to give shrews such as yourself a wide berth," he sneered. "I may be a jackanapes, but you are indeed a virago of the worst sort. I pity any man willing to put up with your poison tongue."

"_Pity?_" the woman spat, two bright spots of color blooming on her cheeks. "I pity the woman who birthed such a foul-"

"Y-You pity no one," Louise said, joining the fray, her voice shaking with anger and embarrassment. "You're too full of judgment for that." She had heard enough as her eyes filled with mortified tears, and her heart banged against her chest. She knew she looked a sorry sight with her wan face and faded dress hanging shapeless on her thin frame. She stood alone in the middle of the shop, awkward and gauche- a young girl whom life had dealt some very hard knocks.

Erik chose to do nothing; murder in front of witnesses would only lead to more trouble, but his fingers flexed inadvertently, feeling the soft doughy flesh and underlying bones of her neck as he slowly squeezed the life from her. That would indeed shut her up. He smiled at the vision it conjured, and Marta at last became aware of what she was dealing with, and backed away from him.

This foray into the normal world only served once more, to show him how hostile it was to anyone different. He forced his burning gaze from her, anger radiating from his unyielding stance, and regarded the flustered butcher. "Hurry it up," he snapped.

Francois gasped in surprise when that masked face turned his way. The tall man had no eyes. He shut his own briefly, then opened them to the same fearful sight. Louise could have told him the reason for it- having seen the cavernous eye sockets from which Erik's unnatural eyes shone.

"I'm quite sure you would like us to leave, monsieur. Fill the order and we will do so," he said, as an unseen muscle worked in one sunken cheek.

The butcher was glad to have something to do besides stare open mouthed at the frightening creature in his store, and hurried to get their cuts of meat.

Marta was being tugged frantically by her companion to the door, but the woman already regretted her outburst; while Erik stared them down, they exited the shop rapidly, thankful to be away from the bizarre man and scruffy girl. Louise walked over to him and put a tentative hand on his arm, feeling the tense band of muscle beneath her fingertips. She gave it a slight squeeze, and he turned and looked down at her in surprise.

"Are you all right?" she whispered.

At his stiff nod, she took the packages from Francois, and Erik dropped the francs into the man's open palm. Turning on his heel, he left the shop, the girl running to keep up with his angry strides. He stopped in front of an open air market, redolent with the odors of exotic spices in large copper bowls, ranged alongside last year's vegetables. He ignored the open stares being given them, and handed the girl some francs.

"I trust you can gather the rest? Bread, some potatoes, and apples if they have them. Tea as well- enough for a few days. I no longer have the stomach for this," he said curtly. "I will meet you on the edge of town, in front of the cemetery gates in one hour, Louise. Do not be late," and left her standing in the middle of the street.

* * *

Juggling her growing pile of foodstuffs, she took another large bite of her apple hurrying now. She had lingered a little too long in the patisserie; the place had been packed full of customers buying the warm, flaky pastries and Louise waited impatiently, dancing from one foot to the other, glancing out the door every minute or so. She was sure she would see Erik bearing down on her in a rage for having the gall to be one minute late for their rendezvous, but she didn't care. She wanted the apple tart more than she had wanted anything. She was hungry and it reminded her of home- of her mama. "I don't care what _he _says. I'm not that late!" she muttered, and took another defiant bite of her apple.

When Louise reached the cemetery gates, she was out of breath and inadvertently squashing the warm loaves of bread cradled in one arm. It was more food than she had seen in months and she felt rich. She reasoned that Erik just needed a good meal to put him in a better frame of mind. But just the thought of him tucking into his dinner with anything other than his usual dour fashion, caused her to snort laughter. _He_ wouldn't know good food if it came up and bit him in the-

"You're late."

She jumped when he spoke, the words clipped and seeming to come from every direction at once, but as she turned awkwardly in a circle, she saw no one. "Erik? I'm s-sorry. I was held up, but I did hurry," she said timidly, brave words now forgotten.

"I've been kicking my heels in this spot for far too long, Louise. I am quite sure I instructed you to be here on time, did I not?"

His quiet tone did more to raise the hairs on her nape than any amount of shouting could have done. He was furious. She could only stand there and reiterate. "I'm s-sorry." She stood in the dusk of early evening feeling the fear creeping up on her. "Won't you come out where I can see you?"

"It's a rare thing to have someone requesting my presence, but no matter. Will this do?" and he walked slowly and inexorably toward her with that economy of movement which belonged to him alone. Wraith-like he had appeared magically from behind a crypt smothered in emerald ivy and plump stone angels.

Louise watched his approach as a fine trembling took hold of her limbs. She wasn't afraid of him, she sniffed. Oh yes I am! her heart quailed, as she looked into hostile amber eyes. She no longer wondered about the cause of Erik's moods. She was certain _he _didn't even know.

"Was it worth it, child?" he asked her calmly. He glided up to stand in front of her, not offering to relieve her of any of the packages.

"Yes," and raised her chin a fraction.

"Did you get your pastry?"

She nodded, feeling miserable and uncertain.

"Come along then," and he set off down the road, not once looking back.

* * *

She put together their evening meal while an icy quiet hung over the small camp. Louise was hungry, but the tense atmosphere took away the satisfaction of having good food to eat after months of deprivation. She could almost hate him for taking that comfort from her. The simple stew she made was filling, but nearly tasteless to her as she kept sneaking occasional looks at her intractable companion. She came to the uncomfortable conclusion that his coldness was far worse than the bite of his caustic tongue. Every time he met her gaze with his unblinking one, she dropped hers quickly and kept her eyes on her plate. At last the torturous meal was finished and she set the apple tart in front of her on the flat rock she was using as a table. In anticipation she broke it in half, the aroma of baked apples and cinnamon escaping along with the thick, sugary syrup. She silently held out Erik's portion.

He stared with distaste at her offering as though it were a ball of mud she was handing him, and made no move to take it. Louise pulled her hand back and took a bite of the pastry as her eyes filled with tears. The tart tasted as good as it smelled, and she made short work of it until it was gone before wiping her sticky hands off on the grass at her feet. "She had no right to say those things to you. No right at all," Louise said, her throat tight.

He looked up from contemplating his dusty shoes, mildly surprised to find her crying; seeing her tears, he felt the guilt of having been the cause again, but the emotion didn't sit well with him, and he deftly turned it into anger. "Tears, Louise? You are only considered a pariah by association with me. You will soon be rid of my society and be glad of it." He surged to his feet and removed his hat, viciously slapping it on his thigh. "And I have no need for you to commiserate with me. It is not welcome and certainly not expected!"

She wiped at her eyes, tired of his sullen behavior. "I wouldn't dream of it. I'm sure you would continue to lump me in with those awful women anyway!"

He squatted down and added more wood to the fire. "I will be greatly relieved when we reach Orleans and I can finally wash my hands of you. I must have been mad to have entertained for one single moment, leaving my home to shepherd a homely chit who is ungrateful as well! You are not worth one jot of my time! In fact, I am wondering why I didn't just leave you to the mercy of the Communards," he sneered. "They would have made short work of you just like they did with your friend."

"How can you say that?" she whispered, deeply hurt.

"You are an ungrateful child, Louise," weakly reiterating what he knew to be untrue. But his sense of shame was a faint glimmer in a conscience not used to wrestling with his own guilt.

His mind balked at the harsh words, adjuring him to make everything right again and take them back. He hadn't meant any of it, but his humiliation today in front of the girl had abraded his dignity. For Erik- it never took much. He damned well knew he was his own worst enemy, but she had been a witness to how others viewed him- a thing to be stared at and reviled. Contrarily, he wanted the girl to see him in a better light, and it wasn't going so well. Which was normal for him.

Worried about her uncertain future and footsore from traveling, she was galled beyond endurance, and stung by his venom. "You are hardly a paragon yourself, Erik! Why, you are the ug-" She bit hard on her tongue, realizing almost too late that he would never see the incongruity of calling her homely when _he_ was the one wearing a mask. She recovered quickly, hoping she could skim over her fast and loose tongue. "Why wait? Leave now, for I certainly don't wish to be a...a b-burden to you any longer than necessary." She regretted those words as well, but stubbornly she wouldn't take them back.

He stared hard at her for one very long moment, then turned away. "Do not tempt me! I may just take you up on that," he warned. His search for a horse that afternoon had been fruitless and he wasn't looking forward to another dreary day of walking beneath a hard blue sky. Perhaps she would be better off without him.

Quietly she cleaned up their dishes and readied herself for the night. Erik had stalked off somewhere, and Louise hurried back to their camp, wrapping herself up in the blanket. The warm fire and cool night made her drowsy, but sleep was elusive with her nerves wound up from the caustic words he'd flung at her. She contemplated making the rest of the trip alone and it terrified her. They still had miles to travel yet, and that meant at least another night or two on the road. The thought of doing it by herself, sent shivers down her back. He might be moody and arrogant, but he was a seasoned traveler and as self-sufficient as they came.

The night wore on and eventually a full belly and tired body weighted her eyelids down, and she could stay awake no longer. And when Louise awoke with the first birdsong of the morning, she was alone.

* * *

**Next up- _One_ for the Road. Or is it two? I forget...**


	11. Chapter 11

He stared at the men surrounding him in a circle and knew this was going to end badly. All that was missing were the stones and cudgels. Years ago, as a homeless child, the first drop of his blood from a thrown rock, usually emboldened a crowd intent on doing him bodily harm. They had swarmed him then, and it was unsurprising that some of those in the mob had been women and girls who had proceeded to beat Erik before leaving him lying in the road, his blood soaking into the dirt. That they went to their homes ashamed of their part in the attack, did nothing for him as he crawled off into the bushes much like a wounded animal will, to hide and tend his hurts. Those days were long gone, but he didn't relish more of his blood spilled. He focused on every one of the men staring him down before they decided to teach him manners- which he had no wish to learn.

He had awakened early and watched the girl sleep the sleep of the innocent. He envied her. His own rest was nearly always ruined by vivid and disturbing memories invading his dreams, led by an army comprised solely of the dead. At times so exhausted, he would fall asleep over his music sheets, waking up stiff and disoriented. He often thought he would pay a king's ransom for one night's sleep with no dreams- no gut wrenching terror.

He propped himself up on one elbow and studied her face relaxed in slumber. She must despise him now after the hurtful things he said to her- for his unfair need to use her as a stand-in for the rest of humanity. But it seemed that for every one good thing he did for her, he performed several that were not. He was not used to dealing with people in a kindly manner, let alone a young impressionable girl child. Erik got quietly to his feet, his mind made up. She would sleep another hour or so, and with any luck when he returned, she might look with favor on him. He smiled bitterly- _again. _If he had learned anything about Louise, it was that forgiveness of his transgressions ran through her stomach.

The patisserie was indeed open by the time he walked the fifteen minutes into the village. The main street was already busy with matrons doing the marketing, and men getting town business out of the way before their long days officially began. He went through his routine- making certain mask was straight and hat pulled low. He sighed in exasperation at his neediness for her smile.

He slithered in the bake shop door and tensely waited at the counter while the women around him moved away like receding waves onshore, leaving him stranded high and dry. He was accustomed to it. One in particular got his attention. She hung back from the others in the shop and backed slowly to the door. She was minus her friend from the butcher's, and for a change she seemed disinclined to say anything to him. Ah, he reasoned- it is a new day and she wishes to keep it pleasant. Lovely woman, he thought sourly.

He bought the girl his peace offering- he expected a very pretty thank you from her. Over the years, Persia in particular, he had observed children in the market place begging for sweets from their mothers. Louise was a typical child in that respect, with a child's voracious sweet tooth. Amid the usual frank stares, he exited the patisserie and stepped off the sidewalk, starting down the street. Blessedly, the sky had lightened only a bit into a morning dark with gray scudding clouds and no sun. He sniffed the air- _rain__-__swollen_ clouds, he amended. He would have to hurry and get her moving before they received a drenching.

"You there."

The men came at him from both sides of the street and he stopped. There were four of them- all well muscled from farm work. The graying man who spoke, glanced behind him and said to the woman from the butcher's, "Is this the one?"

Marta, feeling confident once again with her men surrounding, her nodded, her elaborate feathered hat leaning drunkenly to one side, and she shoved it upright with an impatient hand. "Well, of course it is! How many masked men are there running around Melun, Alphonse?" she said scathingly.

Her husband turned back to Erik and looked him over curiously. "So far my wife hasn't exaggerated, monsieur. She told me you were- _different,_ and very rude to her in the butcher's yesterday- that you threatened her also. Is this true?"

Erik let the bag with the pastries slip through his fingers to the cobbled street. He would need both hands and the Punjab as well. Killing with the lasso would be a last resort if he could help it- it would be a short, vicious fight with no finesse, only survival. With that in mind, he attempted to reason with the man. "I think your wife is mistaken. There were no threats that I recall, just a slight misunderstanding. My apologies if I gave the wrong impression, madame," and he bowed gracefully in the woman's direction. _Meddling cow. _He appeared relaxed and apologetic, his lanky frame held loosely, but he was ready for violence- it had an annoying habit of turning up wherever he went.

"Don't believe a word he says! Ask him where that girl has gone! She was with him yesterday. There's something strange with this one! Maybe he murdered her or...or worse! She looked frightened to death the entire time we were in Francois'."

Erik looked at the woman with cold amusement. "What fate could be worse than death, madame?" Seeing the woman's flush of embarrassment and the set of her prudish lips, he stroked his chin. "Ah, yes, yes. I could see how you would view something like that as much worse. Eh, Alphonse?" he said slyly.

"Where is the child?" Alphonse ignored this small exchange and glanced around the street where a small crowd of on-lookers had gathered.

Erik noticed them too, and the whispers were becoming louder, turning into an ever-growing angry murmur. _Oh, yes. So very happy to be hearing that particular noise again. The slumbering beast awake__n__s._

"Come with us, monsieur. We will let the gendarmes settle this. I'm sure they would like to see who is under that," and he gestured to the mask.

"I am not accompanying you anywhere. I have done nothing wrong, and I beg you to reconsider. Mind your own business- and teach her to as well," he retorted, feeling nothing but a weary anger at the stupidity of this woman and the persecution which always greeted him no matter where he traveled.

Marta had half a mind to insist her husband back down from this man; he was not reacting the way anyone normal would, challenged as he was by four men. He was too calm and composed- she was quite certain he was no stranger to confrontations. Even in the presence of her husband and three strapping sons, she felt uneasy from that animal-like gaze, and her opinion of the man was borne out when she heard that smooth, silky purr speaking to her alone. Frozen in place, she could only listen in horror as he commanded her attention as nothing else ever had.

"_I will not hesitate to snuff the lives of your husband and sons, madame. Surely you must realize that fact by now?._ _I__ can do it too. Erik has had a lot of practice over the years. Care to see your loved ones fighting for breath as I throttle them? It is not a sight fit for a grand lady such as yourself. Oh, my word no. They will gasp for air and thrash uncontrollably as their features become something alien and repugnant to you. You do not want to see such a thing, madame, I assure you. It only takes seconds to end a life, you know, and then you will be widowed and childless in one fell swoop, and it will be at your instigation. Tell him the truth of the matter before it is too late. It is your decision, Marta."_

"A-Alphonse? Perhaps you should just let him go." She was shaking with terror, and deathly afraid to meet the foul creature's eyes, but in the mindless way one will pick at a scab, she raised her eyes to the masked man's and was startled to find his eyes boring into hers.

_"I am waiting, dear lady." _he said in a gentle manner which didn't reflect his killer's heart, and Marta whimpered. She had no idea how he performed this evil magic of speaking only to her, his mouth unmoving, but it was true. No one else seemed to be affected by that maddening whisper. She spoke louder, nearly a panicked shout.

"**Alphonse!**"

He ignored his overbearing wife and Erik was impressed. He rather thought dear Marta would wear on a man's nerves like water works away at stone- inevitably wearing him down until he becomes nothing but a tiny pebble easily crushed. His thin lips moved into a facsimile of a smile and the put upon Alphonse was repulsed. If a wolf could shape its mouth in such a way, it would resemble that ferocious grimace. "No. I think he needs to tell us where the girl has gone," and with a flick of his hand at his sons, they moved in on the masked man. "Please, monsieur. Do not make this any more difficult than it need be," and Erik tensed, poised to strike before they did.

"**Alphonse! **Don't-"

"Papa! _**Papa**_**!**" Everyone turned at the sound of the girl's excited cries.

Erik looked up and watched in bemusement as she approached their intimate little group, and his disturbing grin made another brief appearance. "I'll be damned," and he was quite certain he was.

* * *

Louise had awakened that morning and stretched before turning over to face her masked companion, but his space beside the fire was empty. She had expected to see him sitting quietly as he often did, and she was prepared to give him a little of her cold shoulder as punishment for the harsh words he spit at her last night. Nothing overt- just a tiny bit of censure as a form of protest. His caustic remarks thrown at her in anger, still hurt like a bad tooth. She rubbed at her eyes and looked around their empty little camp. "It means nothing," she whispered into the cool morning air. "He's filling the skin with water, that's all." He was always up hours before her, and would sometimes fume at Louise for daring to sleep longer than him. After yesterday though, she was hesitant to see him; his mood had been dark and angry last night, and the bite of his tongue especially hard.

She yawned and got to her feet, shaking out the blanket and folding it carefully. Curiously, her gaze fell on the fire which was just faint embers now, and felt a twinge of unease. Erik usually had a nice fire going when she awoke, the water hot for a cup of tea before beginning their travel. Chewing her lip, she glanced carefully around. The food sack, now with the comforting bulge of actual food in it, was hanging in a tree away from any predators expecting a free meal. The goatskin zaharta was leaning on a rock nearby- as was his blanket, neatly folded on the same rock. Puzzled, she took the rag she used as a towel and headed for the stream to wash the sleep from her eyes.

As Louise splashed water on her face, she recalled the last words she flung at him last night and hurriedly finished, walking quickly back to the camp, hoping against hope that he was back. Her uneasiness was growing right along with her fright and she worked hard to calm herself. He took nothing with him, she reasoned, not even a blanket. She knew that Erik needed very little to get back to Paris; he was very self-sufficient and would simply steal what he needed. Perhaps if he were feeling a little guilty for deserting her in the middle of the trip, he would leave her the few things he had, to salve his own conscience. Louise could see him doing just that, because he did indeed have one.

Uncertain about her next move, she decided to walk back to Melun and see if he had returned to the village. Why he would do so after the unpleasantness of yesterday was questionable, and she didn't really think she would find him there. The accompanying fear at the thought, slowed her steps as she trudged past the cemetery. Alone again! Alone again! her feet whispered, picking up the rhythm through the dust of the road, her ears hearing only that- deaf to the trill of larks and thrushes in the alder trees lining the road, her eyes blind to the green of the grass, and the swift moving clouds passing overhead.

Only a few days ago, she would have been happy to rid herself of Erik. He was irascible for the most part, and could go from amiable to dangerous in the time it took her to blink. He had desired her- she was quite certain _that_ state of affairs hadn't changed, but he was hiding it well.

She wasn't completely innocent- couldn't be after two years at the Salle Ventadour. Life backstage in an opera house could at times be as brutal as life on the streets. It was certainly not for the faint-hearted, for their _was _a pecking order, and one must learn it before anything else- even before the five basic positions of ballet are taught. Louise had been put in her place many times by the older dancers, even engaging in a round of hair pulling which she inevitably lost. The older girls liked to talk, and enjoyed the attention of the younger rats, who listened avidly to their sexual adventures. Many of them had lost their virginity at a young age and relished telling sordid tales to a captive pubescent audience sprawled gracelessly around them in their pink tutus. Louise had witnessed quite a few of these encounters in dark corners and hallways, warned of their presence, by the heavy breathing and faint rustle of clothing being pushed aside. She well knew what Erik wanted from her- he was a man after all, and a more mature part of her had realized- a very lonely one, but he had used his considerable discipline, and successfully clamped down on his misplaced ardor. Now he made sure never to touch her, and she could only be grateful for it.

But he could also be sweet, and had proven it time and again that there was gentleness in him as well. He hungered for the better things in life, for the beauty where he could find it, hidden as it was among the dross. She might be young, but she wanted those things too. Some part of her acknowledged this and accepted Erik as her boon companion, despite him being a damaged one. Which was why she couldn't understand his defection. It saddened and angered her that he would abandon her this way.

All these things and more raced through her head as she reached the outskirts of the village. She would stop and ask someone the distance to Orleans- surely they would know. Taking a deep breath, she continued up the road, her steps slowing as she saw the small crowd gathered near the patisserie and several people standing in the middle of the street. One in particular caught and held her eye- he was head and shoulders above them all- a monolith surrounded by those of lesser stature, regally observing the world below him. _Flights of fancy, Louise? _She snorted. He was obviously in some kind of trouble, judging by the woman shouting angrily, and Erik's watchful stance.

She looked at the knot of women on the sidewalk and recognized one of them. The very same ill mannered madame from the butcher's- Erik's nemesis. The girl had no clue as to why he came back to the village, but she would do her best to make sure he got out of it. People and her masked man didn't rub along very well; she had seen that with her very own eyes. Instead of feelings of fear and abandonment, she felt energized by the fact that he hadn't left her after all. She was almost happy.

Deciding in an instant what she was going to do, she broke into a run. "Papa! _**Papa!**_" They all turned toward her as she ran straight for Erik, who was still watching the advancing men and catching glimpses of Louise as she made right for him.

She reached him at last, and with only a little hesitation, flung her arms around him. He stiffened at the forbidden contact. "I woke up and found you gone! I was f-frightened!" and she began to sob, the fear and anxiety coming easily, and she used them to better convince the on-lookers that she was a worried daughter searching for her father. A tiny part of her was enjoying the performance- _she _had a flair for drama as well as Erik did, and she wanted to make it a successful production. She clutched him tighter, hearing the thundering beat of his heart beneath her cheek. "_What_ did you do?" she whispered into his vest.

He was still shocked at her abrupt entrance into the mix and so were the men, for they had paused uncertainly when the missing girl suddenly appeared. He spoke to her in the uncanny way he had- lips never moving, but his voice seemingly inside her head, clear as a bell and lightly tickling her ear.

"_I didn't do anything, silly girl! Except return to this cursed village to buy a young hoyden apple tarts for that gargantuan sweet tooth of hers,"_ and never taking his eyes from the men, he jerked his chin at the bag, soaked with syrup and lying on the cobbles at his feet.

'You did?" she said softly, looking up at him in surprise.

"_Indeed_."

"Mademoiselle?"

Louise turned to the gray haired man standing behind her. "This is your father?" It was said dubiously, and she came up with a history for them then and there, praying it was accepted. The man appeared reasonable; just the opposite of his shrewish wife.

"Oui, monsieur. My dearest papa returned to me from the very jaws of death, grievously wounded in the war against the Prussians." She chanced another glance at Erik and said gently, "His face was badly injured in the fighting at Montmartre, and we thought he wouldn't survive." Louise began to cry, remembering her own father who hadn't. "It is terrible in the city, monsieur, simply terrible! Women and children starving. We are alone now, and trying to find a better life for ourselves."

She let go of Erik and put both hands out in entreaty. "I don't know why you are angry with him, but please allow us to leave in peace. He has harmed no one, has he?" She sneaked a glance at Erik, and he was instantly suspicious. The look she gave him was bright with mischief. "He has not been himself since he came home." She patted his arm and regarded him woefully. "He is a little touched in the head, monsieur, and has been known to wander off. Sometimes I have to go and search for him."

Erik rolled a jaundiced eye toward her. "_Gently, young Louise. Gently. Next you will have them committing me to the local lunatic asylum, and I have no wish for it_."

Alphonse glanced from the girl to the man and felt tremendous shame for having confronted a true hero of France wounded in the brutal fighting. The man simply wanted to take care of his child. Or the child only wanted to take care of her father. He wasn't sure which, and rubbed tiredly at the stubble on his cheek. It was too damned early for these kinds of problems. But he had always wanted a daughter; a sweet smelling girl, looking angelic with long curly hair and apple cheeks- one he could read to on cold winter nights by the fire. Instead, Marta had produced three young oxen, always fighting each other, and eating everything in sight just like the locusts do. He sighed, looking again at the thin girl, her eyes too large and too old for her face; a trace of sorrow still visible in them. His anger sought greener pastures.

"Are you satisfied, wife?" he said harshly, swiveling around to her, his eyes promising more discussion when they reached the privacy of their home.

Erik was still coming to grips with Louise rescuing him from- nothing, absolutely nothing, he sniffed. He was in complete control of the situation from beginning to end and he would tell her so. Still, observing her performance, he couldn't keep a grin from his face, to which the people still nervously watching him, sighed in unison and took a step back.

"_Have a care next time, madame when you presume to look down your swinish nose at a young lady who doesn't deserve it." _Marta jumped at the sly voice and received in return a dark chuckle.

He took Louise by the elbow and started to leave, but she held back, swooping down and snatching the sodden bag of pastries. "You went to all this trouble- I'm not leaving without them," she said stubbornly.

"You and a mule, Louise have much in common," he said dryly, steering her purposefully down the street. "I would rather put distance between us and this benighted town before they change their collective little minds and demand we stay a while."

"Wait, monsieur, if you don't mind." Alphonse walked over and looked down at the girl.

"Do you see what I mean?" Erik said snidely to her while staring coldly at the farmer, wanting nothing more than to put the village far behind him. "We have miles to travel, monsieur, and because of this town _meeting_, we are no doubt going to get very wet," peering at the lowering sky.

"I wish to give you something for your troubles, if I may?"

"And what would that be?" he replied, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Alphonse waved a hand at the wagon down the street, loaded with last year's produce. "A parting gift for a hero of France," and saluted the masked man.

An amused Erik, quietly laughed to himself at this swift turn of events, while Louise beamed and Marta scowled.

* * *

Late afternoon saw them well away from Melun, the weather cooperating and remaining dry, and a contented Louise keeping up with her companion. "We have more food now, Erik. More than we ever had at one time in Paris! Isn't it marvelous?"

"It's difficult enough to find food in a city that doesn't have any. Melun has never felt the sharp bite of hunger," and hefted the bag filled with potatoes, turnips, and a large chunk of cheese. Farmer Alphonse had even presented Louise with another blanket for the cool nights. Too bad he didn't throw in a horse, he thought ruefully.

They had stopped briefly beside the road to rest a while and Louise finally dove into the sticky bag of pastry, bringing forth a convoluted mess of apple tart and croissant. She held out a particularly glutinous jumble of dough to him, and he merely shook his head in disgust. "No. Absolutely not. _T__hat_," and he waggled one long finger at the shambles in her hand, "is as far from appetizing as one can get."

"You have no idea what the word appetizing means," she retorted with a grin.

His only reply was a grunt, as he took a long drink from the goatskin and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "You surprised me back there, Louise. You could have thrown yourself on their mercy, and they would have taken care of you, and no doubt sent you on your way to Orleans." He looked at the sky as a stiff breeze sprung up and rushed through the long grasses at his feet. He felt the tug of the wind at his coat and hunched his shoulders reflexively. "For all that they tried to condemn me for my appearance _and _my character, they were not so very bad- at least where you were concerned they were not."

She licked the syrup off of her hands, and peeked in the bag for more. She pulled out the last piece of croissant and popped it into her mouth. "Neither are you." Chewing thoughtfully, she turned and looked at him. "I thought you left me. You were angry enough to do it last night." Her gaze was steady and bright. "They treated you badly, but you went back anyway. Thank you, Erik."

He cleared his throat and stood up, obviously uncomfortable, but he paused a moment, and in his own eccentric way, thanked her for her help in Melun. "That was a nice bit of acting. You _are_ meant for the stage someday." He didn't look at her, but kept his eyes on the racing clouds. The girl's words were pleasing to him, but they only managed to increase his guilt for the things he had said to her- for his sometimes shabby treatment of the young girl. "Come. We've wasted enough time already," he said gruffly, and Louise reluctantly left her rock perch.

"I don't know how I'll ever dance again with stubs for feet- they're being worn away to virtually nothing," she told an amused Erik.

"Nonsense. It will make them stronger in the long run," he said briskly.

"Somehow I knew you would say that," she muttered, and surprised a laugh out of him.

At six o'clock, he glanced at the sky again. "Rain is imminent, I think. There is a farm across these fields just over that rise. You can see one of the outbuildings from here." He turned and looked at her, and Louise felt only relief, for she was footsore and tired. "A barn loft can be surprisingly comfortable- out of sight and dry in inclement weather." He slung the zaharta to his other shoulder and bent smoothly from the waist, holding an arm out to the girl. "Mademoiselle, if you would be so kind?" His mellifluous voice was light and teasing. To Louise, it was a rare occurance, but altogether welcome. "We will repair to our _hotel _and its comfortable accommodations."

His playfulness was a welcome change, and in the spirit of the moment, she took hold of his thin arm. "Very well. Let us leave this place then." She stuck her nose in the air and minced her steps in the way she had seen the well dressed ladies do at the opera. She looked up at her companion, and of a sudden, she no longer saw his worn brown jacket and corduroy trousers, his shoes scuffed and dusty from miles of walking. For _her. _He was doing it for her. In a flash of prescience, she saw him standing before her in formal black tailcoat, white gloves and top hat, an elegant silk mask adorning his face. With a slight shake of her head, the vision faded as she smiled sweetly at him. "Lead on, my good monsieur."

* * *

They were drenched before reaching the shelter of the ancient stone barn, and sprinted the rest of the way across the field, with Louise practically dragged along, her hand swallowed in his as he relentlessly tugged her toward shelter. The wind was whipping the rain sideways, and she was chilled to the bone by the time Erik checked the barn for others, and gestured her forward.

It was bliss to be out of the weather after sleeping on the ground for two days. He led her to a ladder in the back of the barn and motioned for her to climb it. She pushed her dripping hair out of her eyes and looked up into the shadows.

"Up with you, Louise. I have no wish to be caught by the farmer when he decides to do chores." He wondered uneasily if there was a dog on the premises. Most small holdings had at least one, but none had given a warning on their approach.

She nodded and began to climb into the loft with Erik right behind her. She tripped over the top rung and pitched forward, only just catching herself. It was dark and fragrant with the sweet smells of hay and clover, but best of all, it was dry. Louise crawled forward and reached inside her coat, yanking free the food bag, also stuffed with their blankets, and Erik plunked the goatskin down. Thankfully, the blankets were relatively dry and she spread them out over the loose hay.

"Get out of those wet clothes."

She snapped her head up at that and violently shook her head. "No, I-I'm fine really."

"Don't be ridiculous, Louise. You're shaking from the cold." He was still standing on the rungs. "If it is me you are worried about, calm yourself. I'm going down by the door until you are situated." He started back down the ladder, and when his head was out of sight, she let out a relieved sigh and began working on the buttons of her bodice.

Once she was in her spare dress, she removed her squelching shoes and stockings, wriggling her wrinkled toes in relief. She looked in dismay at her right shoe where the sole was separated from the upper. She was squeezing water from her hair when Erik spoke from the foot of the ladder. "Better now, Louise?"

"Yes. Come up and get dried yourself."

Hesitantly, he climbed up the ladder to find her combing the snarls from her hair. He crouched there, watching her until she finished. "Don't you want to get dry?"

"Yes. I need to remove the mask for a time. It's becoming uncomfortable," he said somewhat defensively. He put a hand up in the dim light when she scampered away from him. "Over there," and he pointed to the opposite corner of the loft. "You will not see my face, child, I promise you." He retreated to the far side and she heard the faint rustlings as he bared his face, but thankfully he kept to the shadows and she saw nothing but the glow of amber eyes.

The girl chastised herself for being squeamish. His face was always there, just beneath the black linen and he guarded it stringently from everyone. Louise rummaged in the bag for the jar of salve he'd insisted on bringing and removed it, grabbing one of the blankets as well. She got to her feet and was nearly across the loft when he spoke.

"Stop," he said firmly.

Relieved, she set the jar down, and tossed him the blanket, then moved back to her side. "You might need those," she said softly.

Grateful to her, he leaned forward and took the salve. "There are no signs of this letting up anytime soon. We will be relatively comfortable here if we keep hidden."

Yawning hugely, she started rummaging in the bag for bread and cheese. "I feel warmer already. This will be a nice rest for us. We have food and water, and the blankets are for the most part dry." She put his cold dinner in one of the wooden bowls and placed it in the same spot as she had the salve, then fixed her own and tiredly leaned against a wall to eat.

He regarded her in amusement. "I expect an apple tart would taste good now. Don't you wish you hadn't been so greedy?"

She chuckled and popped a piece of cheese into her mouth. "How much further, do you think?"

"Twenty miles, give or take." She could hear a distinct smile in his voice and wondered at it- she didn't have long to wait. "We will be riding the rest of the way, Louise. There's a sturdy gelding in the cow byre. Once the rain ends, we will leave before daybreak, and with any luck we'll be in Orleans by tomorrow evening."

"That's good," and finishing her bread, she closed her eyes for a minute.

He felt anxious sitting in the loft unmasked as he was; he knew she couldn't see him, but he felt exposed. He could admit to himself now, that he wanted the girl to leave France thinking better of him. It was more than he deserved, but he wanted it nonetheless. He wasn't certain why this was so; perhaps because she once called him friend. He would like to know that somewhere, someone remembered him kindly. It would be a first for him. Daroga didn't count; the Persian considered him a thief and a liar, with a killer's instinct for mayhem.

A hard shiver racked his frame, and reluctantly he peeled off his jacket, vest and shirt. Next, his shoes and sodden socks. He wrapped himself in the blanket and wiped at his face with a corner of it. The skin was chafed and raw from the wet mask, and he dabbed lightly at a sore spot high on one cheekbone. He could see the girl resting with her head against the wall.

"Tired, Louise? I daresay you will be glad to put this all behind you, but I have something to say, and I would prefer that you not speak until I am finished." She said nothing, and he nodded his head. "Yes, right. You are a quick study." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You once called me friend. Before I...before I betrayed your trust. I deeply regret my actions that day. You honored me with your friendship. I don't know if you can ever feel that way again...if not, then I'm every kind of fool for ruining something good in my life. I-I never had a friend." He wasn't looking at her- he was afraid to do so.

"What I'm _trying _to ask in my clumsy fashion is-" He cleared his throat. He would much rather be facing four condemned prisoners howling for his blood in that blasted arena, than this _begging _for a young girl's regard. Mon Dieu. The arena- the sweating, frightened prisoners wearing the stink of their fear like a mantle, and tightly clutching their curved shamshirs, awaiting an opportunity that would never come. They had sent their prayers skyward to Allah as they faced the eerie figure in flowing black robes and mask, holding nothing but a ridiculously thin piece of rope. His tortured mind dumped him there once more- the smell of blood conveyed on the sporadic hot winds of summer, the full-throated roar of the spectators waiting to be entertained by the court's magician and high executioner. He shook his death's head, dislodging the ghostly murmurs from the tunnel of years past, not wishing to hear the little sultana's light girlish laugh carried on the sultry breeze as he savagely twisted the neck of another opponent with nothing but his wits and lasso.

"I'll never harm her," he whispered to the murderous child-woman still residing in his head after all this time. He caressed Louise with his yellow gaze, knowing she was perfectly safe with him. "_I _won. Didn't I, Kohinoor? _Erik _won, you bitch."

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep shuddering breath and looked back at the girl. "Do you still consider me your...your little friend?" He cursed himself for being unable to keep the damned thread of yearning out of his voice.

Erik expected the girl to think about that one, but after a minute crawled by, she remained silent. "Louise?" His tone became wheedling, and wished he could go back beneath his opera house and hide.

He spoke her name again, and when she didn't answer, he crept forward cautiously, ready to bolt. His grim mouth relaxed when he saw the reason for her silence, and he hooked the blanket with a long finger, covering the sleeping girl with it. "_Louise." _His whisper was felt more than heard, a mere passing of air between twisted lips as he touched the tip of a calloused finger to her soft cheek. He pensively regarded her for a moment, then with a mournful sigh, scuttled back to his corner of the loft to keep watch while she slept.

* * *

**Next up- _Two_ for the road :)**


	12. Chapter 12

She came awake with a start, feeling the cold hand on her arm and looked up into the darkness lit by the glow of his eyes. "Come, come, Mademoiselle Layabout! Your breakfast awaits," he said softly.

Louise abruptly sat up and yawned. "You should have woke me sooner," she mumbled, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Give me a moment and I'll be right down."

"You won't go back to sleep?"

She shook her head, pieces of straw stuck in her hair. "Erik? My shoe came apart yesterday. Can you fix it?"

He imperiously held out his hand and she gave it to him. "Hurry, Louise," and he was gone from sight.

She quickly packed up everything and put on her damp stockings and one shoe, then grabbed the food bag and goatskin. "What does he think I am? A beast of burden?" she grumbled, dragging everything to the ladder and starting down. Before she was halfway, she missed a rung and slipped. Strong arms reached up and steadied her before relieving her of the bag and the zaharta.

"I said to _hurry. _Not tumble off the ladder!" he scolded.

"The two kind of go together," she said snidely. She climbed down the rest of the way, and he handed Louise her dilapidated shoe, neatly done up with twine, holding upper and lower together. "It is the best I can do for now, but it will suffice. You won't be doing very much walking."

Louise's bladder was making things difficult for her. "I have to- " She cleared her throat and started again. "What I mean to say- "

"Out that side door and choose any tree. Quickly. We don't have much time."

She went through the door and hurried to the largest tree and took care of her business as fast as she was able, then splashed water on her face from a rain barrel at the corner of the barn. Feeling more awake, she slipped back inside, where he took her arm and pulled her toward the cow byre, halting beside a white Charolais. The cow lowed softly while her jaws worked her cud, large brown eyes calmly surveying them. Erik dropped the girl's arm and squatted down, pushing his head into the cow's side.

He turned slightly and glanced at her from the corner of one eye. "Hungry?"

"Famished."

"Excellent," and aimed a jet of warm milk at her mouth.

She sputtered indignantly when it hit her, but nevertheless, licked every drop from her lips. "Couldn't you have at least _warned _me?"

"And miss that look on your face? Milk doesn't get any fresher than that, Louise," highly amused as it dribbled indecorously off of her chin. He was very tempted to do it once more, just to see her scowl again. Instead, "Give me one of the cups." She did as requested and watched as he pulled smoothly on the teats of the still placid cow, and in no time, filled the tin cup for her and handed it over. "Drink up and we will be on our way."

Louise tipped it up and greedily drank in long gulps, intent on finishing it all, until she remembered her companion. Reluctantly, she lowered the cup and sheepishly looked at him. "Here. Have some- it's delicious."

He looked passively at the cup she held out to him, and his mouth twitched seeing the foamy mustache on her upper lip. He shook his head. "You drink it. I have no appetite for it myself," he turned away and grabbed the reins of the large brown gelding in the next stall, "although I wouldn't say no to a large scotch if someone were to offer it to me."

"What?"

He didn't answer her as he led the horse over to the wide door and opened it. The rain had stopped, leaving soggy ground and dripping branches in its wake. He leaned out and quickly glanced around. Satisfied that they were alone, he turned to Louise. "I'll mount first, then pull you up."

"Uh...I suppose," she said, eying the tall beast with misgiving. "What about payment?"

He gave her a fuming glance and fished in his pockets for some francs. "You shall beggar me yet, Louise," he said sourly. "I still have to make travel arrangements for you _and _return to Paris. Here...place it on the edge of the feed box where he won't miss it," and reluctantly held out two francs.

She looked dubiously at the money. If he were paying by the hoof, this would buy them one- _maybe, _she thought dryly, and was about to argue the paltry amount, but a close look at his eyes and grim mouth, decided her and she did as told. She followed him meekly as he led their ride out the door. Grabbing hold of the mane, he easily swung himself up on the horse's broad back, then reached for the goatskin and food bag. Once situated, he held his hand down to the girl.

"Up with you, Louise."

She looked at the solid mass of twitching horseflesh and hesitated. Erik seemed very far away. "I've never been on one before. How do I- ?"

"God's bones!" he snapped, his always scant patience at an end. "Just give me your hand and I will do the rest. It will be lovely for you sitting back there and enjoying the scenery as we pass it by. Pity _me_, Louise. I must steer the damned thing. Now get...on...the horse!" She squeaked in fright, but grabbed his hand and let him pull her up. She settled nervously, her arms automatically circling his waist for balance. "I am profoundly grateful it is not my throat you have in a death grip, or else I would surely choke to death. Kindly leave off. You needn't clutch me quite so tightly."

"I'll fall off."

"You will not fall off."

"I'm sliding, Erik. Stop the horse!"

"Quiet, odious child!" he hissed. "We haven't even moved yet." He looked over his shoulder and gave out a long-suffering sigh. "Are you going to be this difficult all the way to Orleans? What happened to your _great adventure?_"

"I left it behind me twenty miles ago," she replied wearily.

"That bad?" He swung the horse's head around, pointing it toward the road, and touched heels lightly to its flanks, starting it at a walk. With a frightened squeal, Louise renewed her death grip on his waist. Erik merely shook his head in disgust. "A small amount of courage can go a long way- try showing some, if you please."

"I'm sorry. I'm just a little tired, I suppose." She looked at the ground, which seemed very far away as it moved beneath them. "I-I'll get used to this." She squeezed her eyes shut, but it only made things worse, for now she felt dizzy. She opened them again and kept her cheek pressed tightly to his back.

"Indeed you shall. Your feet will be grateful. Now be a good girl and go back to sleep."

"Sleep? I'll fall off!" She heard something garbled from him, but decided she didn't want to know. It probably wouldn't be fit for her ears anyway.

* * *

Louise had to admit that Erik was right. She gradually relaxed enough to enjoy the sensation of moving forward and not expending any energy doing it. She kept her arms around him and rested her head against his back, actually dozing a little. They followed the road until the sun came up, then he urged the gelding into a belt of trees and rode parallel to it. He explained to her the need to avoid the road for a few miles in case the farmer went searching for his horse.

Erik for his part, tried to ignore the feel of her pressed against his back. Her cheek was warm, infusing him with welcome heat- the firm grip of her slender arms around his middle, very pleasing. He was comforted by the sensation of a warm female body aligned with his, although he would never admit it to the girl. She needed him. He had basked in that knowledge for months. Quite a different prospect for the Angel of Death.

Sometime after noon, they stopped to rest the horse and Erik led him to a nearby stream, letting the gelding drink his fill. Louise laid out bread and the last of the cheese, along with the apples they had left. Once he tied the horse to a tree, he walked over and joined her, but remained standing.

He took the bread and cheese she held out to him. Louise had ceased to question the way he ate his meals; it was obvious that the mask tended to get in his way and the reason he took such careful bites of everything. "I had forgotten how punishing horseback can be to the nether regions," he said ruefully. "You seem to be adjusting well."

She shrugged and picked up an apple. "It _is_ better than walking. You were right about that." She stared sadly at her feet. "I only hope my shoes hold together until I get to Naples. My aunt will think me a regular ragamuffin, won't she?"

He had nearly forgotten the reason for this trek, and it had nothing to do with sightseeing. By this time tomorrow, she would be out of his life. Why had that knowledge conveniently slipped his mind? She didn't _belong_ to him, after all. So he said nothing, concentrating on anything other than Louise's approaching departure from France. He would go back to Paris and resume his life in the opera house; with any luck, he could begin work again on the theatre- if it still stood. Once it was finished, he would retreat to his home in the cellar and remain there for good. He didn't need anyone, least of all a skinny petite rat. But the endless days and nights stretched forward into a bleak future, filled with a windy silence which would surely drive him mad. He didn't want to be alone again.

She had done this to him. Worming her way into his heart and then leaving him when something better came along. He listened to that insidious voice whispering of a betrayal which didn't exist, except in his own convoluted mind. His tone was chilly. "Come, Louise. It's getting late and I want to make Orleans by nightfall." She was feeding her apple core to the gelding, and laughed softly at the feel of the smooth muzzle lipping her hand. She looked up at him, puzzled by his abruptness. They had been getting along well together, and his change in attitude put her on alert.

She gave the horse one more pat and turned to face him. "I uh...need to-" and she gestured to the small woods behind them.

"Then hurry and be quick about it. The sooner I wash my hands of you, the better I'll be," he said harshly, picking up the goatskin and striding to the stream to refill it.

Hurt, she turned away and moved into the brush a distance from the stream. It wouldn't do to keep him waiting very long. His mood was spiraling downward, and she had no wish to be on the receiving end of it when it reached bottom.

* * *

The growing shadows of dusk saw them at last riding into the bustling city of Orleans, and Louise wanted only to get off the horse and set her feet on firm ground. It had been a long day, made even longer by Erik's querulous mood; no matter how often she tried to pull him out of his ill temper, he resisted her efforts until finally she gave up. She kept her hands lightly at his waist, but only enough to steady herself. They had rested the horse one last time before the final push for Orleans. She glanced shyly at him.

"Have I done something to...to displease you? If I have, won't you tell me what that might be?"

"Why do you always hop to the wrong conclusions, Louise? Maybe I have other more pressing matters on my mind. The world does not revolve around you alone, you know."

"Of course it doesn't. I never said it did," she protested, and resolved to say no more.

And she hadn't, until the road into Orleans. Louise watched the people rushing to and fro, especially the well dressed ladies in their latest fashions and elaborately styled hair. She looked down at herself in dismay, seeing her dirty dress and decrepit shoes, and was mortified when several of the women eyed the grubby girl with scorn. She had unconsciously tightened her hold on Erik, seeking comfort from the curious stares.

"They look at me as though I were dirt beneath their fine shoes," she murmured.

He was astute enough to uncerstand her misery, and said quietly, "They are staring at me, and you are simply guilty by association. They would look no different than you if they were forced to live in the same way as you did for months. Hold your head up, child." His voice for a change was nearly gentle, and she took heart from it after the dismal hours of silence, which had made for an uneasy quiet. It was a stark contrast from that morning's bright chatter and his amused responses.

The curious looks continued, for they indeed were an odd couple; the tall, painfully thin man who appeared virtually faceless- an oddity in their midst, and a young girl, shabbily dressed, her eyes shadowed with weariness. But she did as he bade her, and sat up straighter, staring back until they dropped their eyes from hers and hurried on.

Erik made for the centuries old Hotel Groslot and the carriage yard in back of the ancient building. A beetle-browed man with an unprepossessing air, approached them with a frown creasing his forehead. "No rooms here. Be on your way," he told them dismissively, and folded his arms across his barrel chest, waiting impatiently for the peculiar looking man to turn the horse around.

Instead of leaving, Erik threw a leg over the gelding and slid to the ground, then turned and helped Louise down. He faced the shorter man and was pleased inordinately when he stepped back from him. Hideous had its advantages after all. "Oh, I'm not going anywhere, my good fellow. However, _you _are. Go inside and tell Monsieur Vardot that Erik wishes to speak with him."

"Now see here! You can't-"

"I can though. I do as I please, _when _I please. At the moment, it pleases me to speak with Monsieur Vardot." He gestured to the tired gelding. "Someone needs to take care of this animal," he said softly, and Louise heard the ominous warning hidden in the gentle tone.

The man heard it too, and had enough sense to leave it in the hands of the concierge instead of running the risk of either a broken jaw or unemployment. He relished neither, and did as he was told.

Louise, feeling small and dowdy, looked uneasily at Erik. "Maybe we should try someplace else. This place looks too nice for the likes of us."

"Take that back, Louise," he said sharply, and reached over, removing the food bag from her grasp. You have just as much right here as anyone else. Think like a guttersnipe, and they will be more than happy to treat you as one."

She blushed and straightened her shoulders, feeling awkward around this cold and lofty Erik. A large, florid man came through a side door and walked toward them with ponderous steps, the hostler following on his heels. Erik stood loosely, watching his approach and Louise followed suit, or at least tried. The concierge pointed to the horse, and the suspicious hostler making a wide berth around Erik, led the animal away.

"Erik! This _is _a surprise." The neatly dressed man came forward, his eyes sliding to the young girl standing quietly beside him.

"Josef. Greetings to you," he responded coolly, and turning to Louise, brought her forward a pace. "This young lady requires a room with a bath and change of clothing. Might I count on your assistance?"

"You need only ask and it shall be done. I'll see what Therese can find on short notice for a young and- _dainty _female." He smiled kindly at Louise, and motioned her forward. "It would seem you've had a hard ride from- Paris?"

Erik answered for her. "Most certainly. The young mam'selle will be traveling to Naples as soon as it can be arranged. She will require a chaperone. Know of anyone?"

"Possibly. Let me get her settled," the man glanced over Erik's equally worn clothing and road dust, "then a large brandy should be in order, eh?"

"Scotch."

Josef chuckled. "Scotch it is. Then perhaps you will tell me how you got out of the capital. I was told not even a gnat could manage it."

"I'm not a gnat."

Josef laughed outright. "No," he agreed, "you are most certainly not one of those, but all the same, I would like to know what has been happening with you and- " His voice trailed off suggestively, and Erik simply kept walking. Louise looked up at her gaunt companion, wondering how much he would tell this garrulous man.

"The girl needs some privacy, Josef, then we will talk. Scotch first, bath second, another scotch, and _then_ I will satisfy that blatant curiosity of yours."

The concierge sighed. Yes. One never hurried Erik.

* * *

"So Paris is still in dire straits?" Josef leaned back in his chair and studied the man sitting across from him. To say that Erik cleaned up nicely would be a misnomer. Clad now in gray sack coat and trousers, his person noticeably cleaner, he still remained outside the pale when it came to humankind. He nursed a glass of scotch as they caught up with each other after a two year absence.

"I think it will be coming to a head in the next week or so. The Republic is pouring through the Commune's defenses every single day; the only thing slowing them down is the street to street fighting."

Josef nodded at this and regarded the masked man curiously. "All right, you're bathed and liquored up. What is that girl to you?" Those yellow eyes thoughtfully settled on him. It had taken quite a while to get used to the damnable things.

"You really are annoying, Josef." He sighed and took another swallow of his drink. "Very well. She did me a favor some months back." He looked up from his glass to see shrewd blue eyes behind gold rimmed spectacles eying him cynically. "Not at all what you are thinking, you swine," he said with cold amusement. "She helped me elude the Communard bastards one night, and I returned the favor when they were holding her in a dungeon cell below the theatre." He proceeded to tell Josef everything he wished him to know, then got to the point. "I don't want her arriving unchaperoned to her aunt. It is much further to Naples than the paltry distance to Orleans; she needs someone with maturity to accompany her."

The big man shifted in his chair and poured a finger of brandy into his glass. Not looking at Erik he said much too casually, "Do you feel a little more than simple affection for this girl? She must mean quite a bit to you, coming this far with her. You always preferred shadows to sunshine, haven't you? And what about that grand house of music you were building?"

He ignored the first question. "On hold until this madness is over and done with. God damn them to hell if instead they blow it up! There are barrels and barrels of gunpowder sitting in the cellar that will blast it jolly high if the Socialists decide to eliminate another example of the excesses of Napolean. I must return soon." Curbing his impatience, he said evenly, "Can you help me with a chaperone?"

"Indeed I can, my boy. Indeed I can. My sister. She's getting bored with me _and _this establishment. My mother died a year ago, and Tess was at loose ends. You remember Therese, don't you? She took care of ma mere for years- never did marry, but it has worked out rather well for the both of us. I have someone to housekeep for me, and she has someone to fuss over, but I'm sure she would love to travel and have the companionship of another woman. She can meet your young lady at dinner."

"She is _not _my young lady, you lecherous ass! I'm old enough to be her father," he rejoined.

"Ah, but you are not, and in a few years she will be very marriageable," and he grinned wickedly, to which Erik smiled faintly. Unbidden though, he recalled pressing his unwanted attentions on her, and sobered quickly. Well, he was removing the temptation, wasn't he? That was the best he could do for her, and he once again denied the accompanying ache at the thought of her imminent departure.

He cleared his throat and lied smoothly, "I want her gone as quickly as possible. She has been nothing but a nuisance to me."

"Yes, of course. You protest a little too heartily, but no matter. We will have her ready to leave here in a day or so, and then you may return to your opera house, and play with your blasted notes, if indeed it still stands."

While the men talked, Louise luxuriated in a hot bath. Her room was well appointed and comfortable, the bed massive and reflecting a style from centuries ago. She thought it unlikely that a room such as this one came cheaply, and she wasn't certain how someone supposedly with no money could afford it. Stripping out of her soiled clothing with deep satisfaction, she submerged herself in the large tub and scrubbed vigorously, working the creamy soft soap into her hair. Once done, her skin rosy and glowing from the warm water, she slipped into new undergarments and a pretty pale yellow dress she had discovered lying on the bed. It was slightly large on her, but she reveled in the clean drape of it over the simple bustle someone had provided. Hurriedly she did up the buttons, twisting one way then the other to accomplish it. A knock on the door, and she quickly slid her feet into a brand new pair of shoes and went to answer it. A house maid had arrived to show her to the dining room.

Upon entering the room, the men stood up. Erik wore new clothes as well, and for him, appeared relaxed and almost amiable, the forbidding line of his mouth having softened a bit. The glass of red wine near his place setting showed her the reason why. He looked Louise over carefully, thinking yellow did her justice. A heavy-set woman with a lined face sat at the table with a smile of welcome for her, and Monsieur Vardot performed the introductions himself. Louise liked Therese Vardot from the start.

The two women talked, taking the measure of each other. Louise was a little hesitant at first, and surreptitiously watched Erik from the corner of one eye; for months he had been her only companion and she had depended on him more than she realized. Relating to others now, would take time; thankfully she found Therese to be plain spoken and kindly.

The older woman, after learning Louise was an orphan, felt the urge to mother her, but the young girl made it fairly plain from the start, that she didn't require a substitute for her own mama. Therese began by asking a few innocent questions, trying to draw her out, but the girl was a quiet little thing, only answering politely, until her reservations became less, and she began talking more. But her gentle smiles never quite made it to her eyes; there was a sadness to the girl that would no doubt take much longer to disappear, if ever. Grief was a hardship for one so young, and she was intrigued to see how often the child's gaze settled on the masked man. She held Erik in high esteem- that much was obvious, but he was studiously ignoring her. And Louise wasn't taking it very well. He had acquired a juene fille who wasn't inclined to run from him. Therese smiled to see it. Apparently she had adopted Erik as her family; he just wasn't aware of it.

Dinner over, they made their plans for the coming journey. Shopping for clothes and sundries would be done in the morning, as well as tickets bought for Grenoble. Louise listened as well as she could, smothering a series of yawns until Erik finally glanced at her and stood up.

"I think it is time you retired for the night. A regular bed to sleep in shouldn't be wasted. You will certainly wish for one in the days ahead." She made her good nights to the Vardots and he escorted her upstairs.

She _was_ tired, but had no wish to say good night just yet. "How do you know the Vardots?"

He looked down at her, inhaling the clean scent of her hair and felt a brief tug of despair. He would return to Paris alone. His home would be silent once more; the only noise, that of his own making. He didn't think he could stand it.

"Erik?"

He straightened his stooped shoulders, realizing he had no choice in the matter. He needed to get on with his own life and forget the last few months. Forget _her_. He said quietly, "Josef was stopped one evening by a couple of footpads intent on relieving him of his money; perhaps even his life. I took issue with that and chased them off. He was grateful enough to take an interest in me, and after learning of my predilection for construction, allowed me the task of renovating this hotel, which in turn led to other projects- namely building houses."

"What you did was very brave. He was wise for hiring you."

He shrugged negligently. "Oh, I don't know about that. You see, robbing Josef was also _my_ original intention." He ignored her start of surprise. "He doesn't know that, of course. He may have suspected it, but he never let on that he knew. I was out of money, and I had no takers in those early days for construction work," he said, a trace of bitterness still present after all these years. "I was getting a little desperate by then after leaving my last place of employment in a bit of a hurry. Josef was as likely a target for me as anyone else back then. My, uh- _annoyance_ at the missed opportunity for robbing him blind, led me to intervene_. _Josef's gratitude from my timely arrival, fortunately led to better things."

"His friendship?"

"For lack of a better word, yes, I suppose you might call it that. Friendship is a word you toss about much too loosely. I meant building houses."

"Why did you ever leave?"

He thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and was rocking on the balls of his feet- something he often did, Louise thought, looking at him fondly. As though he were listening to some internal rhythm. "Unfortunately, it folded within two years. I wasn't considered normal enough to build homes for the bourgeoisie." He reached around her and inserted the key in the lock. "Good night, Louise," he said stiffly.

"Good night, Erik. I just want to- " but he had already turned and left her. She'd had every intention of thanking him for the gift of clothes and the cost of travel to Italy. He simply waved it off the first time she brought up his generosity. Apparently he wasn't as destitute as she was led to believe. Or as tight fisted.

She closed the door, mourning his change in attitude. Their recent camaraderie was conspicuously absent now, and sadly she thought it was gone for good. She didn't want their final parting to be awkward. Erik was the last link to Paris- to her home and family. She hesitated to think there was any real affection between them; they had been allies against a common enemy- deprivation. But in her over-active imagination, she had built up her Tante Maria into a harsh and controlling termagant when she should have known better; contrarily, Erik became her white knight when she knew very well he was far from it. She was wrongheaded, but she was tired of upheaval and only wanted to pick up the tattered threads of her old life, for the future was looking altogether strange and frightening.

* * *

The carriage ride to the train station was a short one, and before many minutes had gone by, the moment was at hand and Louise was saying goodbye to him. The harsh glare of broad daylight, coupled with all the curious glances, was wearing thin and Erik elected to remain beside the carriage. He wished only to get this final leave taking over and done with and return to Paris. There was no room in his life for sentimental drivel, and the chit should realize that. Therese, with her brother in tow, left for the train, giving Louise a moment more with her one-time companion. She stood there, the finality of this parting making her glum. She would never see him again. It should have made her happy; no more awkward moments, or for that matter, dangerous ones. Happy was not what she was feeling.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for their last farewell. He held out his hand. "Our paths diverge from here, and we must travel in different directions now. Have a good life, Louise. I hope it is all you could wish."

She took his hand in both of hers and held on tightly- her last connection to home. "I don't know what to say. I-I'm not really sure I _want _to go."

"You are being ridiculous. I didn't come all this way eating dust to end up with you remaining on my hands. Get on the train, Louise before it leaves without you," he said, forcing himself to remain impassive.

She wasn't sure why she felt so awful; yesterday she couldn't wait to be gone from him and his constantly shifting moods. She took a deep and shaky breath, willing the tears away. She would not cry in front of him. She would not. "Goodbye then, Erik. I hope you get to finish your theatre." She stared up at his unsmiling mouth, knowing how much she was going to miss this difficult and confusing man. She had grown fond of him against all odds, and silently, she disengaged her hand from his and at last turned away. It wasn't a good ending for the things they had shared in these stark days of the Commune.

Erik had the sense of being cast adrift and rootless with her impending departure, and tried desperately to convince himself he didn't need her. He hadn't needed anyone since his mother abandoned him beside that desolate country road. He had started moving away from her emotionally before they reached Orleans, but it was too little, much too late. He had become used to the girl and her ways; the sweetness with which she filled the large void in his life, sharing his home and worrying about his welfare- she was the first to ever do so. Louise had been his comrade- his friend_. _He closed his eyes, his thin fingers curling into his palms and he felt the bite of nails in the scant flesh of his hands. He dreaded the return to Paris and his solitary existence.

She was leaving, and her last memory of him would be a negative one. He glanced at the surge of humanity surrounding him, thankful that a cloud had passed over the sun, dimming the bright glare. Making his decision, he grimly pushed away from the carriage and walked quickly toward the train, ignoring the stares and whispers. He passed Josef as he did so, and the comical look of surprise on his face would have amused Erik no end had he been looking, but he never spared him a glance. The train was leaving the station. _Let...her...go. _He ignored that snide interior voice as his panic grew.

"Louise!" A feeling of dread was a leaden weight in his chest. He needed to say a proper goodbye to her, not the pitiable thing he had uttered in that dead monotone. Erik walked faster, keeping pace easily with the slow moving train. "**Louise!**_"_ he bellowed.

She had paused just inside the door for a moment, schooling her features into a semblance of passivity before going to her seat. The conductor approached her smiling. "Ticket, mam'selle?" and she gave it to him, swiping at her eyes in distress.

"Mademoiselle...Sorelli, is it? I was asked by your traveling companion to watch for you. If you will be so good as to take your seat- " They both turned at the panicked shout from outside.

She heard her name being called in his thundering voice, and her heart started to pound. Just as the conductor began to close the door, she leaned out and spied Erik striding along beside them.

"Thank God!" The shine in his yellow eyes matched hers. "I wish you only the best. The very best! Dance, child and become famous. Be happy, I beg you," and he held out his spidery hand to her. She leaned further out and took it in both of hers, squeezing tightly.

"Erik! You also! My dearest friend- " and cried when he nodded and mouthed the words back to her.

The train picked up momentum and her hand started to slide from his grasp with a finality that tore at her heart. All too soon, she had to let him go. The irritated conductor was behind her, imploring her to take her seat, but stubbornly she watched until he was nothing more than a tiny speck in the distance.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N Congratulations to everyone who figured out Louise's identity prior to chapter 12. ****Your prize, if you choose to accept it, will be**** a childishly scrawled autographed copy of- Haunted, A Day in the Life of an Opera Ghost, by Erik. Included in the book is a special section dealing with recalcitrant managers and how to really stick it to ****'****em. Happy reading!**

** I own nothing of PotO.**

* * *

Paris 1881

"Move it a little to the left, darling. Yes, that is much better! What do you think?"

Louise backed away and tilted her head, looking seriously at the small painting of the Bay of Naples hanging on the dining room wall. "Lovely. You were right. It does look nice there." She glanced knowingly at her aunt. "For whenever you get homesick," and put an arm around Maria Renaldi, giving her an affectionate hug. "It wasn't easy coming here with me, was it?"

Her aunt snorted. "I was getting _too _comfortable the last few years- too set in my ways. Before Ennio died we talked about traveling somewhere- we both wanted to see France again. It is without him now, but I needed to do this. A change of scenery every once in a while is a good thing, don't you agree?"

The young woman laughed. "Why, of course I do! That way I don't feel so very bad dragging you away from your home. Besides, you are going to love Paris! All over again." She looked out the window of their apartment on the rue Chaveau, marveling at the change, as she had been doing for a week now; the last time she was in her birth city, it was torn apart and dying from the ravages of war and strife. The streets were now filled with well fed Parisians going about their daily business, which was a much more pleasant pursuit than scrabbling to find their next meal. It was a scene of prosperity that left her feeling a little perplexed, having never witnessed the painful transition from peace to plenty, and she felt the change to be almost mystical. Like the mythical Phoenix, Paris had risen from the ashes better than ever, and so had she.

Leaving France ten years ago had been the hardest thing she had ever done. Arriving on her aunt's doorstep in the beautiful city of Naples, the travel weary girl had been warmly welcomed, putting to rest her fears of rejection. Having been widowed for eight years and childless, Tante Maria nevertheless accepted the duties of parent to the orphaned girl, and through the years had treated Louise as though she were a daughter from her own body. She provided the girl with a pleasant home, and their relationship had only deepened. When the young woman became a member of the prestigious Teatro di San Carlo Opera House, Maria watched proudly as her niece fulfilled her dream of becoming one of the principal ballerinas.

Louise observed a man and woman as they walked past the building, obviously a courting couple if the heated looks they were giving one another was any indication. She had fancied herself in love once or twice in the sometimes vicious, and oftentimes lecherous atmosphere of an opera house. Flesh was peddled as a bartering tool to rise quicker than anyone else; rivalries developed in the corps de ballet that became less about art and more about trumping your opponent.

She had succumbed to the temptation only once, despising herself for sacrificing her morals for a role onstage. For weeks afterward, meeting the honest gaze of her aunt had been difficult, thinking Maria could see right through to her tarnished soul and lost maidenhead. When she debuted in the lead position, she had concentrated on her movements until the music lifted her, and in her mind's eye, she saw Erik urging her onward. Her eyes had swept the audience then, absolutely certain that he was sitting there front and center, encouraging her with his amber gaze. A fancy of hers and nothing more; she put her disappointment aside and proceeded to bring the House down.

But to say that trading her virginity was worth it in the end, was a moot point. She got the coveted role of Giselle that she bartered for, and she would be lying to herself if she denied her feeling of triumph that night, receiving the accolades of the audience and her peers. But she had no intention of repeating the process and degrading herself for a man to expend his lust on, trading the use of her body for a brief moment onstage. That had been years ago, and she had clawed her way up by hard work and talent, which shone brighter than any others in her orbit. If it wasn't quite the top, it wasn't because she hadn't tried; she had stumbled briefly, righted herself and moved on- _moved up _under her own power. She was one of the primary dancers of the San Carlo, and was proud of her achievements. The fact that she never attained top position in the opera house was more about what she _wouldn't _do than from any lack of talent. Sorelli's main rival in the theatre knew exactly who she was performing for, and it wasn't the audience- Nina Cavallo was top ballerina- when she wasn't bedding Vincente Breda, the ballet master.

When M. Debienne came backstage to speak with her, he made Louise an offer she couldn't very well refuse. Based on the glowing reviews for her work onstage, and for her role that night in the production of Le papillon, the management was set to make her premier ballerina at the Palais Garnier. The manager of the San Carlo having been informed of her defection, offered her more money and the promise of eventually becoming premier dancer for the San Carlo, but with chilly politeness, she refused, her sights now set on going back home...

To return in triumph to Paris, and dance upon the greatest stage in the world. _And perhaps renew an old acquaintance, Louise? _Having never heard from Erik since leaving France, she didn't know if he was alive or dead. She was happy when she learned that his theatre had survived the war, and in 1875 it debuted with La Juive, for the very first performance. She prayed that her masked man had helped complete the magnificent building as he had wished- her heart whispered that he had indeed.

She thought of him often those first few years in Naples, for regardless of some of his ill-conceived actions toward her, he had been her friend when she needed one, and she missed him dreadfully while she acclimated to a foreign country and way of life. Over time though, she had relegated Erik to a corner of her mind, never quite giving him up, but hauling out his memory when she was upset and downhearted. Crazy or not, she would _converse_ with him in the quiet of her room before sleep came for her, stubbornly hanging on to the echoes of his beautiful voice in her head for as long as she possibly could, and would feel all the better for it- her talisman against the bumps and bruises of life.

Arriving in Paris a week ago, she wanted to go straight to the opera house, but other obligations had to be met; finding a place to live and settling in before rehearsals started was paramount. She had received a note from the managers of the Garnier her first full day in Paris, giving her the address of this very apartment. It had been a God-send, for it had been love at first sight for both women on viewing it, and saved them from looking on their own. Louise required something close to the Garnier and for Tante Maria, a comfortable and decent home; looking around, she felt they were both satisfied on all fronts. The rooms were spacious with high ceilings, and the windows on the south side of the ground floor apartment looked out on a charming courtyard filled with pots of scarlet geraniums and a riot of climbing roses that would bloom in the summer months and perfume the very air with their heavy scent. Relentless emerald ivy trailed over much of everything, and a little stone fountain sat in the middle of the space, water trickling from the stone urn of a peasant girl holding it high on one mossy green shoulder. A pair of wrought iron benches sat to either side on the worn cobbles; it was warm and inviting and she intended to take advantage of the garden when weather permitted- someplace to hide away when the demands of her profession became too much.

Maria bustled around the flat, plumping pillows on the sofa, or twitching the satin draperies to hang just so. She was an attractive forty-eight year old woman, her wealth of dark brown hair, braided and tortured into a coronet atop her head. Wearing a deep blue walking suit of crepe de chine, Louise admired the color on her as she put the finishing touches on their new home, while no doubt planning their noontime meal.

"You look very nice! All ready for our outing, I see."

Maria paused and sternly regarded her niece. "I hope you are not planning on going right this minute! There is a little matter of lunch first. Which do you prefer, dearest? Green salad and some of those little shrimps, or soup?"

Louise turned from the window and contemplated the mundane. Her aunt was a woman who put great faith in three meals a day, and woe to anyone who skipped even one. "Um, the salad, I think. It's warm for April, isn't it? Something light would be better. Besides- I have waited far too long for my first sight of the opera house after all these years! If I must eat, then let it be quick." Grinning, she grasped Maria's hand, and hustled her off to the well appointed kitchen.

"You eat no more than a bird at times, child. How you find the energy to dance is beyond my comprehension, but a salad it will be!"

"If I were to eat everything in sight, as you sometimes insist, I would not be able to _walk _across the stage, let alone dance! And what man in his right mind would want to do a lift with me in his arms?" She gurgled her infectious laugh and looked down on her much shorter aunt. "Speaking of walking, we are taking one right after lunch. It is too beautiful a day to sit inside of a carriage, and we don't have far to go. You and I, tante, are visiting the Acadamie Nationale de Musique this afternoon!"

Maria smiled. "Well, of course we are! You have been talking of nothing else since you awoke this morning. I confess, I am excited to see it. And I will. If I can keep up with you, that is!"

* * *

Her first sight of the Paris Opera House put to rest a hunger she hadn't known was there. As happy as she had been with her aunt in Italy, it had always been in hiding awaiting fruition. Home. For ten years she had overworked her muscles and bloodied her feet, rising to the top of her profession just to return to her former home successful- to stand on the busy Parisian sidewalks surrounded by those speaking her native tongue.

She turned to Maria as they mounted the marble steps of the grand staircase. "Well! What do you think of it?" her voice tinged with awe and excitement.

Mischief sparkling in her expressive brown eyes, she replied blandly, "Massive, isn't it? We will require a libation after making our way through its entirety, won't we?" After a slightly annoyed glance from her niece, she added with a smile, "It is wonderful! Such use of cherubim and nymphs- and gold leaf everywhere. Very Baroque. You will be quite happy here, Louise."

She laughed and nodded."Much better! Yes, I think I'll be very content. You and I are going to take a tour after I see the managers, cara. If you like, you can walk the Grand Foyer and go out onto the loggia."

Maria wandered off by herself while her niece followed the directions M. Debienne had given her. She found the office with no trouble, and after tapping politely on the door, was admitted by the other half of the managerial team, M. Poligny. The pudgy, mustachioed man was all smiles as he ushered Louise to a chair. For once Arthur had been correct in saying Louise Sorelli was uncommonly pretty. She was tall for a woman, nearly his height of five feet eight inches, and had an abundance of shining brown hair done up in a neat chignon. Although some would never consider her beautiful in the classical sense, her face was regular with a determined little chin and wide open hazel eyes. Dressed in a pink striped dimity dress with a matching chipped straw hat, she was a very attractive woman, altogether appealing, and would count as an asset to the opera house.

"Monsieur Debienne has stepped out for the moment, but permit me to welcome you to the Palais Garnier. I hope your association with us will be a long and successful one."

After assuring him she wished for the same, she thanked him for his assistance in finding a place to live. His look of vagueness and hesitancy puzzled her a little. "Well, it...it was really nothing, you understand," he replied with a weak smile. "We were glad to be of service to you. How are you settling in?"

Louise effused over the apartment, and he offered her tea which she declined. He then proceeded to give her a brief introduction to the opera house and its company, promising her a guided tour of the theatre to commence on the morrow.

He was nearly done, when Arthur Debienne barged through the door, his face twisted in anger. "God damn it, Claude!" he exploded as he came in waving a letter clutched tightly in one fist. "He's done it again! Now he expects an increase in salary! Increase for _what_? I'm certain we can choose our own dancers and let _them_ find their own living arrangements without his interference! And what does _he_ know of conducting an orchestra, I ask you? He insists on more sectional rehearsals, especially the woodwinds. Why pay Reyer? Just let the damn ghost have his job! I told you not to give him one centime, didn't I? _Didn't I? _Oh no, not you! Opera ghost indeed- why I-"

Poligny rolled his eyes and surreptitiously jerked his head toward the chair in front of his desk, but Debienne incensed, had blundered into the room and missed the slender young woman sitting quietly in their office.

He cleared his throat noisily, and stuffed the letter into his pocket smiling wanly. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle Sorelli. Just a little business matter. It is of no consequence."

His jacket was off, and his cravat twisted around beneath one ear. Louise looked into his red face, and wondered what would constitute an emergency for him, if this was the way he behaved for very little. "Of course, monsieur," and she hid a smile- just barely, "I can see that."

Poligny shot Debienne a dirty look. "It is nothing, mam'selle. Nothing, I assure you. Someone writing letters in a childish scrawl to the management insisting he is a ghost. A ghost! And one that wants to be paid to _unhaunt _that which is not!"

She was having a hard time keeping a straight face, but she succeeded- only just. "Of course, monsieur," and she rose to her feet. "I can see you have matters to discuss." Both men were fulsome with their goodbyes as she was led to the door rather quickly.

"I need to find my aunt before the opera ghost extorts _her _for money," Louise muttered beneath her breath as she headed back in the direction Maria had taken, and entered the Grand Foyer. Walking slowly, she gaped at the sheer majesty of the room. "Erik, it is truly wonderful," her eyes drawn in every direction."You must be very proud." She turned sowly in a circle, looking for something she wasn't even certain had existed anymore, but Poligny's rant gave her fresh hope. "I've missed you, my friend." She studied the golden room closely, the interplay of mirrors and tall windows accentuating even further its large dimensions, but her enjoyment was interrupted by an odd perception of eyes upon her.

"Hello? Monsieur Opera Ghost?" Silence met her query and she continued on.

She moved toward the red and gold auditorium, its main feature, the great proscenium stage with its painted house curtain, awed by the splendor of the scroll work and elaborate carvings she passed. As she strolled, the creeping sensation that she was being watched persisted. Stopping, Louise once more turned slowly, seeking a moving shadow or a flash of gold in the dim corners. Maybe because she wanted it so badly, she was creating a phantom that didn't exist outside the realm of her own imagination. Or that of Debienne and Poligny? But her thoughts naturally turned to Erik. If he was here, wouldn't he let her know? Perhaps he stayed in Orleans, or God forbid, died before the theatre was even finished. She couldn't abide that thought, and instead wondered if her erstwhile friend had taken up extortion as a hobby. It was an activity with which he would do very well. She hurried to find Maria.

* * *

She found the cat in an alley not far from the opera house. He was a grizzled warrior of the streets, wearing every scar like a badge of honor, and Louise tsked when she saw he was missing an eye, the remaining one shining yellow in the dim light. Every day for the past three weeks, she had stopped at the mouth of the alley with a food offering; some little tidbit for him to devour as he approached her closer and closer, until she was able to touch two fingers to one ragged ear.

"Yes, you're a survivor, aren't you?" He backed away at her sudden movement and sat calmly, licking one paw then the other, deceptively unconcerned, but nevertheless watching her carefully. "Well fine. Have a nice day- Monsieur Erik. The name had popped into her head, and the cat paused in his cleaning, staring at her as though offended by the moniker. Louise had to laugh. "Yes. _Erik. _You remind me of him in some ways. You're ...well, not the most handsome fellow, are you? And arrogant as well." She straightened up and prepared to leave. "I must be on my way now, monsieur, so stay out of trouble and I will stop by tomorrow. Who knows? I may even have something good to eat, just for you."

Rehearsals had begun on Giselle, and for the rest of the day she focused on her role as the titular character, the beautiful and frail peasant girl in love with a man promised to another. She wanted her first performance in the opera house to be her best. During an afternoon break, she sat with some of the other dancers and listened idly to the talk.

"...but I did see something in that box. It was sitting in one of the chairs and stood up as I entered," said Estelle, one of the principal dancers.

"You weren't tippling something red and aged in a barrel, were you?" laughed a fair haired girl named Filene. Estelle was well known to find an empty box, put her feet up, and indulge in one of her favorite pastimes.

"No, but after that I wished I had been. He growled at me and disappeared."

Sorelli found this amusing. "He _growled _at you? What did he look like?"

He was very tall. I _think_...it was dark, so I couldn't make out much detail and...and he disappeared. I think this place is haunted. Cook said she had food vanish from the kitchen several times, and some consomme recently- it just went _poof_, she said."

Uri Orlov, Giselle's Duke Albrecht, sat down beside Louise. The handsome curly haired Russian was gregarious and charming, and had a number of the corps de ballet fawning over him. "Ah, the ghost, is it? Me, I have seen this ghost. He is hideous, Looisse. It is better he hides his face. It is- how you say...? It is...'_orrible_."

"Where did you see him, Uri?" asked a petite rat named Isabel. They were all leaning forward enjoying themselves endlessly, and Louise just managed to stop a snort.

"Why, eating his consomme in a dark corner, where else?" He glanced at Sorelli and gave her a slow wink. "He is very messy ghost. He did not have spoon and tipped pot up to his lips and slurped it down. It went everywhere. He is easy to spot now. Just look for soup stains," he grinned disarmingly, "and you have ghost!"

They all had a good laugh at that, but it was a nervous titter, for theatre folk are superstitious. Louise laughed the loudest, trying to picture her neat, fastidious Erik slurping his soup. Well, it was possible, she reasoned. It _had_ been ten years.

At six o'clock the rest of the company went home for the day, but Louise stayed behind, deciding more practice was in order. Or was she trying to channel a ghost? She left the dressing room assigned to her and started down the hallway. This section of the theatre was still gas lit, the light a dim red glow behind the flickering ruby glass of the wall lamps, which didn't illuminate so very much, as aid in the creation of even more shadows. When she reached the practice room, she started at the barre before going through her routine. The graceful curve of her body as she stretched her muscles was not lost on the pair of eyes watching her through one of the floor to ceiling mirrors which lined the room.

She worked on the coda for the next fifteen minutes, repeating it a number of times, for it led into the ballet's pas de deux. Closer to opening night, she would dance here with Uri, but for now she wished for the quiet of her own thoughts as she practiced.

A loud contented sigh was heard and Louise faltered, as a fine trembling took hold of her limbs. Straightening, she glanced round, schooling her features to remain passive, when her facial muscles were threatening to break into a wide grin. With feigned exasperation, she spoke to the room. "This is a fine welcome home! I think you have been following me around for these past weeks, and for whatever reason, refused to make yourself known until now. Is this what you do, Monsieur _Ghost_? Spy on everyone from dark corners?"

"Hardly that, Louise. I am much too busy slurping consomme to do anything as mundane as spy," the voice said tartly.

She had nearly jumped when he answered her, not expecting it. "You were listening to us?"

"Listening _and _watching."

Her eyes kindled as she tried to follow the sound of his voice. It came from everywhere... it came from nowhere. Erik's tricks, of which he had many. She shook her head gently, wondering how she had spent an entire decade away from sparring with her friend. No one did it better than he. Well, she amended, _he _sparred- she merely tried to keep up with him, but the thought of Erik having access to any room he pleased, was more than a little disquieting. "I never considered you to be a voyeur. Is any room safe from your prying eyes and ears?"

There came a deep chuckle and she shivered at the sensation it caused. It was like talking to the air surrounding her, a will o' the wisp with no substance, just an ethereal voice, lovely in its timbre, and it was doing odd things to her breathing.

"I am a ghost, Louise. A non-corporeal bit of protoplasm. I must be able to rattle my chains and flit through walls with ease, or the rats would think me a very poor sort of phantom."

"Poor?" She snorted inelegantly. This conversation was proof positive that one can pick up an absentee friendship after many years, and go on as though time had simply stood still. "According to the managers, you're well on your way to becoming the wealthiest ghost in Paris! I'm surprised that instead of the mere rattling of chains, you're not frightening them with the jingling of extorted coins in your pocket!"

This time she was treated to a very real laugh of amusement. "You wound me, Sorelli. _I_ extort money? Fie on you!"

Say anything she wished about Erik, but his voice alone should have been able to move mountains. Her eyes filled with happy tears. She hadn't realized until now, how very much she had missed him. She felt a tremor of joy and steadied herself by taking a deep breath. "Estelle said you growled at her in one of the boxes. Did you?"

"Who is Estelle?"

Louise closed her eyes as the sound of his voice washed over her again with the richness of dark chocolate melting on the tongue. It had been so long. Now her adult ears heard those sinful tones of his, and thought of activities undertaken on a soft bed in the deep bosom of the night, when words of endearment are spoken in hoarse whispers. She felt herself blushing in confusion and stuttered out a reply. "One of the d-dancers. Oh, Erik, if you- "

"You have grown quite a bit. A veritable Amazon. Charming. Simply charming." It was said lightly, but she detected an undercurrent there; an eagerness which matched hers, even surpassing it.

She felt shy in his presence now, and searched frantically for common ground. "It's magnificent, Erik! Your house of music is a jewel in the crown of Paris."

"As you are the rare and beautiful diamond gracing it. Welcome home, Louise. It has indeed been a long time," and so saying, stepped through the mirror.


	14. Chapter 14

She could only stare at the tall figure dressed in head to toe black as he stepped through the mirror. He wore the deepest shades of ebony- a swallowtail suit of fine broadcloth, waistcoat with silver embroidery complete with gold fob chain disappearing into the pocket of his vest, and a satin cravat artfully arranged in precise folds. His attire was that of any well to do gentleman who frequented the Opera Garnier. The only peeks of color were the snowy bits of lawn shirt she could see. Add to that the silk mask, and he was more of a shadow than ever. He was rail thin as always, and one quick look into his yellow eyes- just as dangerous.

But for now, his mouth was twisted into the facsimile of a smile, and she noted with pleasure the softening of that piercing gaze. Erik was pleased. He glided over to Louise in the loose-limbed manner that was all his, and for a moment she thought he would embrace her. Instead he came to a halt in front of her and simply looked his fill. With a tiny shake of her head, she reached for his bony hands and squeezed them in both of hers.

"This is not the French way of greeting, but it will have to do," she said smiling at him, and was delighted when his hands turned over in hers and cradled them gently.

"Quite the lady now, aren't you, La Sorelli?" he teased. "Where has my little hoyden gone? You have shot up straighter than a poplar tree."

She feigned indignation. "Did you think I would remain a runt forever?"

"No, but I still have a few inches on you, my young Amazon," he replied, amused.

"More than a few, I'd say," looking up into warm amber eyes. He was still a full head taller than her and straight as a ramrod. "It's been such a long time, Erik."

Silence for a beat. "Yes."

He was watching her closely, learning her face all over again. The adult Louise was merely superimposed over the child she used to be; a narrowing of his eyes, and there she was, her fourteen year old self tearfully saying goodbye to him at the train station.

He quickly made up his mind. "Are you hungry?"

Caught off guard, she nodded her head. "Starving."

"I am relieved then, for nothing has changed. I once again find myself providing you with food."

Her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Yes, but you were so excellent at it, even sending fresh milk my way, as I recall." She sobered and fondly looked at him. "You always managed to find me enough to eat, didn't you, my friend? Even at your own peril."

He ignored this, his eyes having a feast of their own after ten years. "I could fix you something," and he was studying her face again, daring her to refuse. "If you wish it."

"I would love it," She winced though, picturing her aunt as she explained to her why she was so late and not hungry. With Maria Renaldi, that simply would not do. "Just allow me to change my clothes and then we can leave."

They walked back to Louise's dressing room for the most part quiet, and she found herself sneaking glances at him, and no doubt Erik did the same, for every time her eyes alighted on him, his slid away. Excusing herself, she went inside and quickly exchanged her gauze skirt for a royal blue one, and a white shirtwaist. Hooking a black velvet belt around her slim middle, she checked her hair in the pier glass and grabbed her paisley shawl. Extinguishing the lamps, she left the room to join Erik and found him nowhere in sight. Starting down the dimly lit corridor, she wondered when the electric lights would reach this far backstage, and jumped when a hand settled on one shoulder, his voice in her ear.

"Wrong way." He took her elbow and gently turned her around." Just to the end of the hall." He looked down at her as they walked. "I hope I can count on your discretion for what you are about to see."

"You need to ask that? Of course you can trust me!"

He opened the door of the dressing room and ushered her in. A wave of his hand and the room filled with pale light, and she gazed with interest around her at the flocked wallpaper in crimson and gold, the floor covered in rich Aubusson carpets. It was a deliciously decadent room made for trysting with a lover. A gold tassled couch in deep wine and a floral upholstered chair took up one corner. A parlor stove squatted in the other, and beside the door, a large vanity awaited the application of greasepaint and mascara.

"It's twice the size of my dressing room and much prettier!" She observed figurines of china shepherdesses with their tiny sheep, and little painted dogs crowding each other on several shelves hung on the walls, while vases of wilted flowers sat on just about every flat surface, their stale perfume lingering in the air. A filmy ladies shrug was draped over the back of a spindle chair as though flung there in a fit of temper. A dressing divider with more clothes carelessly thrown over it, stood opposite a floor length mirror.

"Who's room is this?" she asked him, puzzled.

"The insipid, ever annoying _La_ Carlotta," and at her look of comprehension, said in a bored tone, "Yes, quite."

Louise had the misfortune of being introduced to the diva not long after joining the opera house. The soprano was rude and imperious, her lofty attitude outstripping her actual talent. She sniffed in disdain. "The squeaky wheel gets the grease apparently." Her laugh was a little nasty when she added, "Or should I say, the squeaky diva?"

He glanced around the lush room. "Not so much a squeaky wheel- or diva, as you are so inclined," a nod in her direction, "as a lecherous manager. She has the ear of Debienne," he explained, pausing for a moment in thought, "well, everything on the toad for that matter," and guided her toward the back of the room, never noticing Louise's suddenly flushed face.

His words were a little too close to what _she _had once done to secure a role. The ornate mirror took up a good portion of the wall, and Erik put out a pale hand toward it. A bemused Louise watched as the mirror slid soundlessly to the side, revealing the waiting dark just beyond. "Has this always been a way to the cellars?" she said turning to him.

"Yes. It is how I helped myself to the food stored here ten years ago." He put a hand lightly on her arm and gestured to the opening. "Shall we?"

She felt a slight tremor in the fingers at her elbow, but hesitated only a moment as the familiar rank smell of the cellars invaded her nostrils after a decade's absence. It all came rushing back to her- the time spent in a dreary cell as people were led away to their deaths, her dear Cosette among them. Living in the little house by the lake with Erik, and having just enough food to get by. Later, she would wonder why she had trusted him so readily after years apart. People can change in a number of ways, some for the better- some not. She had yet to see what category her friend would fall into, but she was committed now to doing just that.

They stepped out onto what Erik called the Communist Road, and he bent over briefly to light the tin lantern which had appeared in his hand. "When I returned here from Orleans, the Communards were gone, and in their place were the French troops who routed them and secured the building. It was supremely easy to return to my little home and continue as though I had not been interrupted." He lightly gripped her by the elbow again, and guided her across the stone floor, holding the lantern aloft for her benefit, not his own. "You must never come this way without me. Promise me you will wait until you are invited," and he stopped and turned to her. "It is important that you do this for me."

"Of course. I would never dream of invading your privacy unannounced," she said stiffly, and he could feel her withdrawing from him.

"Now, now, none of that," he chided, with a gleam in his eye. "I meant nothing by it, except to keep you safe, child. There are alarms in all of the corridors and a trap set to keep others away from my home. Trying to cross the lake is nearly always fatal to the unwary, and I would rather have you healthy enough to visit me anytime you wish. Just as long as I can take you there myself."

"Trap? What _kind_ of trap?" Louise slowed her steps, picturing great metal jaws waiting to spring shut on some poor unlucky wanderer, leaving him helpless and bleeding. "That's barbaric and unwise, Erik. What if someone from the company comes this far?"

Now it was his turn to stiffen with indignation. "It's only dangerous if they go where they are not welcome. Surely you can see that? I must protect myself, and so far I have been successful. My home is safe against intruders; my talents have oftentimes included diversionary tactics, and I have on occasion been called the Trap Door Lover," saying this with a certain amount of pride.

She made a moue of distaste. "Don't you mean Entrapment Lover? How many have paid the price for your safety?"

He had started walking again and she fell into step beside him. "See any bodies lying about? A skeleton or two perhaps? Aside from yours truly, of course," and dipped his head toward her. "You go too far, Louise. Here such a short while and already finding fault with me." He wagged his head. "You have no feeling for your Erik, do you?"

She stopped suddenly. "No feeling for... _Why_? Because I don't want to see the innocent suffer the perils of your ambuscade- your...your _snares_?" She snorted. "I think this was a bad idea. Can we go back now?"

He shook his head and gestured to the passage ahead of them. They had already traversed several sets of stairs and narrow corridors, going ever further down in the opera house. "Come now, ma mie. We are nearly there. Do not fret over your petit rats. They have not ventured down here, I assure you."

She struggled to get back on an even footing with him. To leave now would be foolish on her part, so she swallowed her annoyance and offered a quick apology. "I'm sorry, Erik. That wasn't very good of me, was it?" and she tucked her arm through his, "I should wait at least a few days before scolding you! And I won't come down here alone. There! Satisfied?"

He regarded their joined arms. "Yes, ridiculously so," he murmured.

Before she knew it, they were across the greasy waters of the lake and entering his little house, where she stopped on the threshold and simply stared. She was standing in a parlor like any other in a normal middle class home. There was gas lighting in abundance in the shape of etched glass sconces on the walls, and marble and brass table lamps with beaded fringe shades on the hall table near the front door, and beside Erik's cushioned chair tucked in close to the fireplace. There was a Louis XV carved beechwood sofa in green velvet, and two matching giltwood armchairs in cream floral, complete with antimacassars on their backs. Two large book shelves flanked the fireplace now, and Sorelli spied the large tome of Russian fables crowding out its neighbors on the top shelf of one, and her eyes slid away from that innocent reminder of a day she had worked hard to forget. A curio shelf holding sea shells and bric a brac stood on one wall, and she was puzzled to see flower baskets of every kind sold in the market stalls, dotting the room, their cloying scent heavy in the stale air of the underground.

"You once said flowers would brighten these rooms, Louise. I do believe you were correct."

She chuckled and walked over to a basket of bright red and yellow nasturtiums, their edges turning brown and beginning to droop. "Yes, very, but only when they are fresh, my friend. These have seen better days."

"I will remember that, and be sure to remove the dead ones before you grace my home again," motioning for her to have a seat. "Wine or tea?"

She chose the tea and he took himself off to the kitchen to prepare it. She meandered around the room, her curiosity to see the rest of his home growing with each step. She spent a few minutes at the book shelves reading the leather spines, then continued on, finally stopping beside an upright piano and regarded the music sheets with hastily scribbled notes scrawled everywhere in red ink. She was amazed he could make any sense at all from his writing. She turned when he came back into the room carrying a tea tray.

"How long have you had the piano?"

He glanced up at her as he poured oolong into delicate china cups. "I've had it for oh..." he paused and thought a moment, "...six years now. Ever since my mother decided to do the right thing and die. Come and sit down. I made you a chicken sandwich."

She took a seat on the sofa and he handed her a napkin. "Were you there when she passed away, Erik? I mean...did you try and reconcile with her?" She was becoming nosy again and he sometimes took issue with her curiosity. This time though, he answered her readily enough.

"_Reconcile_?" His mouth turned down and he shook his head as he stirred his tea. "Hardly likely, Louise. I despised the woman. But I kept a weather eye on her activities over the years, and through my lawyer learned of her death. Everything had been left to me on the off chance, I suppose, that I would ever return to Rouen and claim my inheritance. I think at the end of her life, she actually grew a conscience- or something resembling one."

She sipped her tea and pondered his words. "People change though. She may have been tortured all those years for the awful thing she did to you. It's a shame really."

His eyes sparked at that. "I want this to be a pleasurable homecoming for you, Louise, so don't begin it by talking rubbish! Eat the nice sandwich I made you and drink your tea, then I'll show you what I've done with the place."

She was prepared to argue the point, but one look at his tight mouth, closed hers. He was right. She wasn't the one abandoned beside the road. She bit into her sandwich, reflecting on some of the other meals they'd had in this house. "It's nice eating something you've prepared without worrying I may have petted it at one time," and a dimple appeared in one cheek as she awaited his reaction.

He merely set his cup down, wiping his mouth. "Yes, that was a sticking point with you, wasn't it? I'm simply relieved that you _wish _to eat here again after some of the difficult times I put you through." He looked at her, his gaze softening. "I am very happy you have come home, Louise. Very happy indeed."

"And I am glad to _be_ back. I've missed you, Erik." she said with a smile, and finished the rest of her sandwich. "That was delicious. Now I want to hear everything you've been up to since I left France, then I want that tour!"

He raised an unseen eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. "_Everything?_ That might take a while. Care to stay the night?"

She colored a little at that. She was no longer fourteen years old and innocent of the intimacy between a man and woman. "Ah, no. Just the abbreviated version, if you please."

Louise poured them more tea, while he lit a warm fire, and she welcomed its cheeriness as the light of the flames slid orange and red fingers across the gleaming surfaces of well polished furniture. It almost seemed like old times when they each had certain tasks to perform, and soon they were easing back into their friendship and rediscovering the affection they still held for one another, having kept it untarnished for ten years.

He whisked her away for the promised tour, showing her the dining room with its ponderous mahogany table and sideboard. A large roll top desk took up one corner of the room, a welter of papers drifting across its surface, along with a cut glass oil lamp with delft blue shade, and a square crystal ash tray with a half smoked cigar resting in it.

She turned to him. "I didn't realize you enjoyed cigars," wondering what other revelations she would find concerning her friend.

He negligently shrugged a thin shoulder. "Once in a while, yes."

Moving on, he showed her to a small room at the end of the hall used for making his salves and tinctures, explaining with deep satisfaction, some of the elixirs he was working on. The room was redolent with the smells of lavender, arnica, and lemon balm, and she strolled around the room while he watched her, his feeling of completion at having her in his life once more, making him light-headed and nearly giddy. Louise peeked in the jars lined up like glass soldiers in marching order, their contents varying in color from the palest of browns to the deepest purple. She looked upward to find neatly wrapped bundles of dried herbs suspended overhead, and looking back at him, she realized a simple truth about Erik. Knowledge was _his _elixir. He reveled in learning whatever he could about a world which had shunted him aside.

Lastly, she studied the empty room which had nearly been her undoing, now filled with exquisite Louis-Philippe furniture, the dainty bed standing out brightly with a satin counterpane of blue and gold, "The bed I was born in, Louise," and a fainting couch in rose brocade stood near the small tiled fireplace. The mirrored chamber on the other side of the wall, no longer held any interest for her- she had no wish to upset the status quo or step on any ghostly toes. "You see? Your very own room now if you care to stay." He was proud of his little house. It had handsome furnishings, and pretty floral rugs to walk upon, that lessened the chill of the stone floors.

She said nothing. She wouldn't allow the idea to linger in his head for she well knew, even after ten years apart, how volatile Erik could be. Instead, she changed the subject. "It's all lovely and very comfortable, I'm sure. The piano must bring you a great deal of joy; I know how you love music, but I thought you would have had a pipe organ by now. Just as you always wanted."

He gave her an enigmatic look. "Indeed."

"The opera you were working on- is it finished now? I would love to hear some of it. Will you play it for me?"

"No, never."

She stopped in the hallway and stared st him. "Why ever not?"

"Because it is not fit for your delicate ears. It will never be played for anyone in its entirety, including myself."

"Erik, that really doesn't make much sense." Even for you, she thought unkindly. "Why work on something for years and refuse to allow others to hear it?"

A muscle was working in his jaw and his lips had thinned to nothing. "Because every single note is infused with anguish, and a hunger that must be kept in check at all times. You have seen for yourself how it can slip and reveal the very nature of the beast." His eyes were looking through her, seeing only the denials which had governed his life all these years. "They are my...my base desires, Louise, the same as any other man's, but warped and twisted from isolation. Oh, and the anger...the rage at finding oneself always on the outside looking in where it is warm and loving. Never to feel the tender pull of another wanting- _yearning_ only for me_._

_ "_To put it simply- the music burns, and will blacken any soul who hears it. It is the most rapacious and all-consuming music in the world. I should destroy it, for its melodies are an evil chorus, and who knows what the listener may feel inclined to do because of it? Once I finish Don Juan, I am quite certain I will die."

"Why are you talking like this?" Once again, being in Erik's orbit brought up the most conflicting emotions. He could make her want to weep in sadness for his pain and shout with joy for his brilliance, all in the same moment. His eloquence was captivating, but the undercurrent of despair now present in him, only served to re-enforce his penchant for melancholy.

His stance had changed, and he looked at her with barely concealed impatience, his eyes flinty. "Do you want to see the pipe organ or not?"

"I really don't think so," and she dropped her eyes from his, sad that their reunion after all these years was to end on a sour note. As it did so often with him.

Erik sighed mournfully and turned away from her. "Very well," he said heavily.

Louise took a deep breath. _Oh no you don't, Erik. _"Wait! I _do _want to see it."

Erik glanced down at her in barely concealed relief. With a nod, he continued to his room, Louise trailing uncertainly behind him.

She tried small talk to break the tension. "Is it something like the House organ above?"

"The Cavaille-Coll? Yes, that is a beauty, isn't it? I intend to play it someday," and just that quick his attitude changed, his enthusiasm reasserting itself. His moods were no different from what they had been when she was just a girl- always mercurial and ever-changing. They were approaching his bedchamber, and for a moment she hesitated feeling uneasy. She managed to shake it off and smiled at him.

He threw open the door and stepped back. "Mine isn't quite that large; it was the very devil manhandling this one from the rue Scribe, but have a look and see what you think."

Her eyes should have been drawn immediately to the pipes of varying sizes arrayed behind the organ which sported three manuals. Unbeknownst to her, a small motor operated the bellows; a motor cunningly built by Erik himself. It was a thing of beauty with its burnished wood shimmering and smelling of beeswax lovingly applied by its master, but before her eyes could focus on the organ, they settled on the object in the middle of the room. She stared in dismay at the curtains tied back in festoons of shimmering ebony satin... surrounding a black coffin. It was mounted on a pedestal, its heavy lid open to reveal a red satin interior. Louise tried, but couldn't turn from the peculiarity of that object of death taking up space in his bedchamber. It was too strange and disturbing and awoke a memory, nibbling at the edges of her consciousness.

"Louise?" She was completely still, staring slack-jawed at the coffin.

Never taking her eyes off of it, she said in a hushed whisper, "Who is in there?"

"No one at the moment," he whispered back, amused by her reaction.

"Then why is it in here?" still in a low voice, afraid to disturb whatever might be lying inside.

He leaned toward her and said confidentially, "Because it is where I sleep."

Slowly she turned to him, feeling as though her neck muscles were seizing up. "Sleep?" she said dumbly and shook her head. "No. Why would you _sleep _in it? It's too ghoulish, Erik," and she turned quickly around and fled the room.

He found her carrying the tea tray into the kitchen and gently took it from her, setting it down on the counter. She wouldn't look at him, but felt much safer staring at his narrow feet, no longer encased in the scuffed and worn shoes of a decade ago, but well shod in supple black leather. Her reaction to his coffin was puzzling to him, but in some ways, Erik was naïve to what people found acceptable behavior; he saw the coffin as practical- she saw it as bizarre. She stood there refusing to meet his eyes, the years melting away, and she was once again that awkward fourteen year old girl who shared his life for a few scant months. He gathered her hands in his.

"What has upset you so? It is a natural part of living, and because I choose to have it in my home, you see it as macabre. Maybe I am simply more practical than other men- I _did _tell you once that I would never leave here." He regarded the commonplace kitchen with its everyday wooden table and chairs, sturdy green cabinet holding neatly stacked dishes and cups, the walls of the room painted a cheerful yellow, and said quietly, "This will be my tomb someday."

"You don't have to sound so bloody cheerful about it," irritated by his morbidity, and the sour expression on her pretty face pulled a chuckle from him.

"I assure you, child, I have no intention of going anytime soon." He lowered his voice and his eyes were tender as they gazed into hers. "My dearest friend has returned to me, and I intend to spend many happy hours in her delightful company."

She struggled with her feelings of dismay at the thought of his mortality; they had just resumed their odd relationship, and she had no wish to see it end. She grinned weakly. "It only took ten years for you to acknowledge me as your friend. Long overdue, I'd say." She withdrew her hands and stepped away from him. "I should be going. It's getting late and my aunt will be worried." She went out to the parlor and reached for her shawl.

"Will you come back, Louise? Or are you in absolute disgust with your Erik?"

"Yes, I will be back, and of course I'm completely disgusted with you," but her smile took the sting out of it. "Why in heaven's name can't you sleep in a regular bed like any normal person?"

"Because in case you haven't noticed, I am not a normal man. Why pretend that I am?"

She sighed in exasperation. "Fine. Have it your way then, but I won't be going back to that room anytime soon," and again a memory flitted through her mind, and before she could grasp hold of it, it was gone.

"Then consider yourself uninvited," he said stiffly, tired of this conversation.

"Fine."

"Yes, fine indeed." Erik refused to be outdone.

"Fi-" She stopped as the absurdity of it smote her. Someone had to be the adult here, and it looked as though it would have to be her- again. Some things would never change. The sun rose in the east every morning, and Erik would have the last word- always. She said softly, "Come for dinner tomorrow night. Tante Maria would love to meet you."

He pulled shut his front door and was in the act of lighting the tin lantern for their return trip above. "Somehow I doubt that," and took her elbow, steering her toward the little boat, but she heard the abject relief in his voice. She had briefly forgotten how a simple little argument could grow to huge proportions in his mind. And this was merely the first _day_ after a decade apart.

"Then you would be wrong. She wishes to thank you in person for your care of me during the war. And what better way for an Italian woman to do it with than food? Say you'll come."

He shrugged as he helped her into the boat. "Does she know of this?" and he swept one hand across his mask.

"Of course she does, and it is of no consequence to her, Erik. I told her all about you. Please?"

He began rowing across the lake in swift, sure strokes, his glowing eyes never leaving hers. "Do _you _wish me to come, Louise?"

"_Pish_! What do you think I've been saying all of this time? Yes!"

"Then I accept," with a nod of his dark head.

"Wonderful! I intend to get you out of these cellars as often as possible, so prepare yourself, monsieur," warning him with a light laugh, happy that they were once again in accord. She leaned forward suddenly. "Erik? You never told me your last name."

"No, I did not," and fell silent as he rowed them across the black stretch of water.

She was having none of it though. His stubbornness in the past had raised her ire quicker than anything else, and asking for something as common as a surname and getting no answer was ridiculous. She had to give her aunt a name. "Well?"

"Well, what?" he snapped, his temper escalating at her insistence. His eyes sparked and glittered, but Louise refused to give in.

She spoke patiently as though to a small child, "Everyone has a name, Erik. Why are you being so obtuse?" wondering if his quick temper would lead her to be unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the lake. She snorted. It hadn't happened in the past, why now?

He stopped rowing and observed her silently, using his menacing eyes in the dimness of the cellars to subjugate her, but she had seen his happiness at her return to Paris and wasn't fooled. She stiffened her backbone, swallowed hard, and bravely stared back at him until he was the one that broke the tense silence. "Damn you, Louise! Why is this so important to you?"

She shrugged. "Because it is. Shouldn't I know my friend's full name? You know mine."

She would give him no peace with this, and he sighed in defeat. "St. Clair. There! Are you happier knowing it, you annoying chit?"

He started rowing again, and she just managed to wipe the victory grin from her face. _You'll pay for this, Louise. _"Yes," she said simply. "Why didn't you want me to know?"

"It is the name of those who despised me. I never use it, therefore it is not important to me."

"I understand why you don't like it, but regardless of how you feel, it is your heritage."

"Use it how you wish. I do not care for the subject anymore. You have made me accept an invitation to dinner with a woman I have never met, and forced me to reveal a name I never use. Quite an accomplishment, Louise. You must be very proud," and although his mouth appeared grim, she knew he was teasing her.

"Quite." She _was_ well satisfied with herself, but didn't want to push her luck, and said nothing more.

He merely continued to row, glumly wondering if his machinations to bring her back to Paris had been wise after all.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N This sort of got away from me, so it's a wee bit larger than usual. That may or may not be a hardship depending on your point of view;) ****And now****-**** you****'re**** all invited to dinner. ****Everyone ****dressed for the occasion****? All right then. But first, a little unfinished business.**

* * *

_**Messieurs- Good afternoon.**_

_** Might I remind you that my salary has not yet been paid? It was due at the beginning of this month in the amount of 20,000 francs. I am quite sure it was**__**n't**__** a slight on **__**your**__** part, Monsieur Debienne, but **__**merely**__** a tiny oversight. No matter. Simply put the money in the white envelope provided, and surrender it into the keeping of the most excellent Madame Giry in the usual manner. I'm sure you have no wish for any unpleasantness to commence, therefore I await your pleasure.**_

_**Another situation has arisen which merits your concern for the good of this **__**H**__**ouse. Please inform Maestro Reyer that he needs to convey the music as written by the composer, and not what **__**he**__** wishes it to be. A much better solution I think, than building his reputation on another man's work.**_

_**And the last of it, but surely not the least, may I congratulate you on your new **__**prima ballerina**__**? She is quite lovely, and portrays a wonderful grasp of the titular heroine, Giselle. Long may she reign. Oh, and I'm sure La Sorelli would ap**__**p**__**reciate the larger dressing room at the end of the hall. **__**Carlotta has occupied it for far too long. **__**See to it, if you please.**_

_** Your most humble and obedient servant, **_

_**Opera Ghost**_

* * *

"The unmitigated _cheek _of the man! Look at this writing, will you?" and he thrust the paper under Poligny's nose. "Why, it is written by a mere school boy! We must take a stand on this, Claude, and not give in to him again or it will never end! I for one say no to his threats."

Poligny watched as Debienne balled the letter in his fist and threw it on the desk in disgust. "I'm not sure if that is a wise move, Arthur. You of course _must_ remember what happened when we refused to replace the concertmaster? The man came back from lunch to find his instrument minus its strings." He shook his head and smiled ruefully. "He quit on the spot and defected to the Comique, but I must say in this instance the ghost was right; the present first violin is a much better match for this orchestra."

Debienne was having none of it. "And you think that justifies being terrorized to this extent? Why not take our concerns to the gendarmes and let them root this pest out? I am more than tired of being bullied by a faceless extortionist who deals in play-acting, and I suggest you stand with me on this, or we may as well hand over the theatre keys to this _phantom_ and be done with it!" his face going from a fiery red to apoplectic purple.

"Calm down, Arthur! Really," he exhorted his partner, "keep on in this fashion, and you'll be bilious again!" Poligny sighed and threw the crumpled letter into the trash bin. "And I'll end up doing the work for two," he muttered.

"I have it! Why don't you simply enlist O.G. to take my place?" he snidely retorted. "You have the utmost confidence in his abilities." Debienne took a succession of deep breaths and strove for a little tranquility, but failed miserably. "And while he's helping us _run_ the Garnier, the son of a bitch can continue to rob us blind!"

Claude wore the look of a man sorely tried. He had a luncheon date with his latest mistress, and if this contretemps continued, Manon would be forced to wait for him, which would vex her no end. She abhorred waiting upon people, especially him, and he was more afraid of her than anything the opera ghost could dish out. That settled it. "Oh very well! Enough of this! But if he reciprocates when his _salary _isn't paid, you will receive a very large _I told you so_!"

* * *

Erik stood outside the apartment on the rue Chaveau, caught between knocking on the door and running away. He had accepted the invitation without giving it much thought, but now he was thinking _too _much. He really had no wish to meet Louise's aunt and open himself up to the inevitable stares which naturally followed an introduction to him.

He would much rather be in his home getting reacquainted with Louise after all of these years, than fielding questions from a nosy relative, or facing darting looks of disbelief at what sat in their parlor. He had so much he wanted to say to her, and had only just begun with her short visit yesterday. His first sight of Louise had been the evening of her arrival in Paris, having known when, from listening in on conversations between the two managers. He was hidden behind a large column as she and her aunt disembarked at the train station, nearly close enough to reach out and touch her. Oh, how his hand itched to do so.

Her poise and beauty had caused him a moment of disquiet; he was expecting the frail ill-kept girl with hazel eyes too large for her face, and instead received a vision of sleek chestnut hair, upswept in the latest fashion, her willowy frame clothed in the palest of blue walking suits trimmed in white lace. She was elegant and graceful- far too high for him to attain. And yet his excitement at having his friend back again and in his opera house never diminished. His eyes had followed her avidly in those weeks before making himself known to her. She had quite naturally changed, but Erik hadn't- he remained a faceless stick figure on stilts. Whether it was fear of rejection or his own natural reticence that made him remain unseen to her, he wasn't certain, but when he trailed her to the practice room and she began to dance, he could stand it no longer. The urge to speak with her overrode his strange timidity.

The ten years spent virtually isolated from others, had been an unsettling mixture of abject loneliness and roaring enthusiasm for the completion of the Garnier. He kept busy finishing the opera house, loving it with his hands and watching with satisfaction as its beauty evolved until opening night 1875. His dream of a house of music became reality with a lavish gala performance which included two acts from La Juive, and he had wished fiercely to share this rare joy with Louise. He had watched enthralled, perched as he was in the flies far above the stage, but in the years since then, a restlessness had taken hold of him, and he mourned the loss of her friendship more than ever.

He would sit at the piano of an evening and find himself thinking about her, and his fingers would turn from the keys and begin composing of a different sort. He wrote letters to Louise- scores of them. He would pour out his heart on those pages, speaking to her of his loneliness and desire for her continued friendship. Inevitably though, he would angrily consign them to the fireplace and watch the words of his despair and hope curl, then blacken in the hungry flames. He didn't need her. He didn't need anyone. No indeed. Determined to force thoughts of Louise away, he threw himself into the managing of the theatre and redirected the letters into thinly veiled threats for the good of the Garnier. Although the managers balked often at his interference, he could usually count on Poligny to capitulate and give in to his demands. It amused him to do this, but it was highly lucrative as well.

Some nights he crept forth from the cellars, the sheer need of contact with another human, forcing him to walk the darkest of side streets and fetid alleys, where misery was rampant and any deed was performed for money. He would find a whore willing to accept his touch when the burning in his loins became too hard to manage, and he felt he would go mad. Her idea of sexual gratification was quite different from his; there was no undressing and no bed involved; he simply opened the front of his trousers, and was permitted a few short minutes to expend his lust while they leaned against a grimy wall. It was over in a matter of moments, no real pleasure involved, simply a natural function of the human animal reduced to its lowest common denominator. It was difficult to attain any real satisfaction when the woman smelled rank from an unwashed body, and bore the bitter disappointment of broken dreams. After paying her the amount she demanded for sinking low enough to accommodate a freak of nature, he would slink away and hide, hating himself for his momentary weakness, and despising the wretched woman for her fear and revulsion of him.

Luckily, it wasn't very often that temptation lured him into the tawdrier sections of Paris; the notion of being a virtual untouchable was greatest when he weakened and sought out the street walkers; instead, he poured his desires and hunger for love into his music, until Don Juan Triumphant became bloated with a salaciousness that frightened even him at times. It was a ghastly piece of music, and had become a repository for _his _broken dreams written with a genius skill, but also a half-mad one. He had once told Louise that the music burned, and it was the literal truth- filled with eroticism and raw sexuality, it held very little beauty, but reached out with grasping fingers to sear all with its fiery touch. What he wanted could not be had for any price- a woman to love him and be loved devotedly by Erik in return. Louise coming back to Paris had been heaven sent; he had often missed her companionship with a fierce ache, recalling her ready acceptance of him as though he were any other man. He missed that more than anything.

But now he was committing himself to pleasing her as though she had never left, and he was content to do it. Erik took a deep breath, and castigating himself for a coward, grabbed the iron knocker and rapped it sharply against the door. He had a large bouquet of yellow daffodils and fragrant hyacinth held in front of himself as though it was a shield. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the door, and when it opened Louise stood there pink cheeked and looking splendid in a dark green dress, covered at the moment with a voluminous white apron. She hurriedly removed it, and swept back a few errant curls, smiling at him.

"Erik! Don't you look handsome! I'm so happy you came," and she was. She had half expected her reclusive friend to conveniently forget this dinner engagement and later plead forgetfulness. "Come in, come in," and she led him into the parlor as though he were a guest of honor and needed to be accorded special care. Feeling a little self-pity, he realized that Louise had been the only person to ever fuss over him, and he had missed it terribly.

"Your definition of handsome is loose indeed," he quipped, and hung on to the bouquet even as she eyed it with interest and took his hat, cloak and walking stick, motioning for him to take a seat. "A glass of brandy before dinner?" At his nod, she went to a round cherry wood table and picked up a crystal decanter sitting there on a silver salver.

Pouring some of the golden liquid in a glass, she handed it to him, and sat down nearby. "My aunt will be out in a minute." She nodded at the bouquet. "Very pretty. Anyone special?"

For some strange reason, the urge to tease him had come over her as she observed Erik stiffly sitting there as though he had a board up his back. If she thought she could get away with it, she would have ruffled his hair simply for the fun of it. _Muss the opera ghost's hair? Oh, Louise, __do not touch one strand on that man's head- __you would surely be causing untold peril for yourself. And you might not survive it. _Helpless to resist though, she took her life in her hands and proceeded to badger him. "You didn't take those from your own rooms, did you?"

He ignored her and sipped his brandy, wanting... no, _needing _to stick a finger between his collar and throat. He felt as though he were choking. Louise, not content to leave things alone, cocked her head and looked thoughtfully at him. "They're surely not for me, or you would have already handed them over."

He swung his head around, knowing quite well she was having fun at his expense. "No, I did not remove these from my home. And no, these are not for you, infernal girl! They are for the _lady_ of the house," and his pointed stare at Louise said she clearly was not.

"Why, Erik! There are two of _those _living here. No flowers for me?" continuing to tease him, and enjoying herself immensely. As she watched him though, she felt a tug at her heart, seeing his obvious discomfort in a social setting. The resultant protectiveness which surged through her then, left her confused. Louise snorted. When does the almighty opera ghost require protecting? But she never questioned her happiness upon seeing him at her front door- it was simply there. She poked out her bottom lip affecting a very nice pout, and stared with longing at the bouquet he held onto so tightly.

With a gusty sigh, he worked loose a hyacinth bloom and got to his feet. He placed himself in front of her and presented the flower with a grossly exaggerated bow. "Will _this _do, La Sorelli?"

She accepted the offering with a smile and held it to her nose. "Yes. Thank you," she said primly, and fluttered her lashes at him.

"Something in your eye?"

She shook her head, feeling slightly ashamed of provoking him when he was so ill at ease. "You do look handsome. Very stylish." His mouth had twitched in amusement at this nonsense, but as Louise surveyed him, she thought for a very thin, decidedly faceless man, he did indeed look nice. Or maybe she had grown so used to Erik, she failed to see how others viewed him. Even after years apart, she still saw him through a different lens- a friendship forged during perilous times. He was wearing his customary black, but in honor of the occasion, he wore a bit more color, for his waistcoat was a soft dove gray and he sported a burgundy cravat. The silk mask was molded to his face, hiding much of it, save for his mouth and chin, which appeared stern and forbidding. His narrow shoulders were hunched forward as though ready to deflect a blow, and he sat rigidly in the chair, his long thin legs seemingly set to spring into action and take him swiftly out the door at the first sign of danger. She grinned to herself. If one considered said danger to be in the form of a short, doe eyed Italian woman armed with a rolling pin.

He appeared as though he had a date with Madame Guillotine and she bit back a grin. "She won't bite you, Erik. She is in there working herself to a frazzle chopping, dicing, baking and frying for you. In other words- she is in Heaven. I told her you had a special love for Italian cookery, and she does so enjoy a man with a hearty appetite," her eyes twinkling and tongue firmly in cheek.

"You are an insufferable girl, and I can only hope she doesn't look at this skinny carcass of mine and feel the need to fatten me up. If she does, Louise, you will be at fault if your Erik becomes so stuffed with food, he cannot move an inch! Although it would be a useless endeavor, I dare say," he replied stiffly, as he removed an invisible speck from his trousers with nervous fingers.

"All I ask of you is to eat more than a handful of bites. You needn't lick your plate clean."

His head snapped up at that, and he was chagrined to see her eyes bright with merriment. It awoke an answering gleam in his. "I promise to do my very best." He glanced casually around the room. "Do you have a dog, by any chance? A very _hungry _dog?"

"A dog? No, we don't have a-" She grinned at him again, and he was delighted to see a dimple peeping out of one cheek. She feigned irritation with him, "We do not have a dog, and even if we did, he wouldn't be fed under the table. You, my friend, are on your own," and with those words, her aunt swept into the room, one hand surreptitiously straightening her chignon. Erik rose to his feet with liquid grace, towering over the much shorter Maria as he handed her the flowers, nearly thrusting them at her.

When she put out a hand to him, he took it lightly with his cold fingers, and bowed low over it. "Il piacere e tutto mio, Signora Renaldi. Grazie per avermi."

His Italian was flawless and she knew her French was not. "Grazie, grazie, Signor St. Clair. Bella, bella," and she sniffed delicately at the blooms. Flustered, she worked to say what she had practiced with Louise. "Ah, ah..." With those odd eyes watching her so closely, she forgot the French phrase for- you are most welcome. Taking a deep breath, she tried dredging them up. "Tu...ah...tu es...u-un _pirate_, monsieur. Si! Un pirate."

Louise gurgled with delighted laughter and shook her head at Maria. Over the years she had mastered Italian much easier than her aunt learned French, having grown up in a household where both were spoken. In Italian, "No, darling. You just called Signor St. Clair a pirate. I believe you meant, je vous en prie."

Maria rung her hands, flustered at this breach of etiquette. "Pardon me, signor, I beg you!" She was startled when she looked up at that impenetrable face and caught the telltale gleam of amusement in his yellow eyes and relaxed- just a bit. In fact, they both relaxed and sighed in relief at nearly the same time, and Louise was just able to stop a snort of laughter.

He had released Maria's hand and straightened up. "Quite all right, signora. I have worn that particular moniker at one time. How astute of you to notice." Louise found this an interesting admission on his part, and intended to follow up on it as soon as possible. Learning about Erik's past had always been difficult; questions usually made him irritable. "We shall converse in your language, yes?"

"You are very gracious, Signor St. Clair, very gracious indeed! Come, we will eat, but first I must put these lovely flowers in water. I hope you are hungry," she said skeptically as she studied his painfully thin frame, "I have longed to cook for a man again- my niece eats no more than a bird at times, and Louise tells me you have a fondness for pasta," again eying Erik's whipcord length with doubting eyes. "I have prepared for you baked oysters to start, followed by spaghetti alla puttanesca. You will like it. It is made with olives, tomatoes, capers, and garlic."

"Famished, I assure you," and couldn't stop a mournful sigh from escaping his lips. _How much would he be required to eat? _He sighed again, and Louise, damn the girl, grinned wickedly at him and shrugged her shoulders, the picture of complete innocence. He flicked a horrified glance at Maria as she continued rattling off a list of vegetable side dishes, creamed, sauteed, and baked. In defeat, he rolled his eyes heavenward.

"No help for you there, my friend," Louise whispered as Maria disappeared into the kitchen for a vase. "She is on a mission tonight and you look very hungry to her. You must be a good guest and eat- a lot."

She put a hand to her mouth when he spoke to her alone. "_Enjoying __this,__ I see. You are quite eager to __watch__ your Erik fighting off your aunt's forays into filling the thin man with more food than he can possibly hold. You will pay dearly for this, rat." _Louise thought it best to grab a platter or two to put between her and the masked man and went to the kitchen for the antipasti. To Maria who had reappeared with an aperitif of Campari, he said, "My name is Erik, signora. I much prefer it."

"It is a little premature for a first name basis, but I accept...Erik. You may call me Maria."

"Delighted, Maria."

The two of them chatting like old friends, Louise sat back and watched this interchange with interest. She was amazed at the speed her aunt had worked her magic on her irascible friend. They were getting on famously- so famously in fact, that she was beginning to feel a trifle redundant.

While they ate, he regaled them with tales of his time spent as a Tonkin pirate, even going so far as to show them the piercing from an earring which had once adorned his right ear lobe. Her aunt listened eagerly, and Louise studied her friend as he talked, his mellifluous voice rich and mellow, proving him to be a natural storyteller of which she was very familiar. He enjoyed being center stage she reasoned, when his audience wasn't judging him by his strange looks. When he related to them the time he stayed underwater for thirty minutes with the help of a simple reed, Louise rolled her eyes at him.

"You expect me to believe that? How could you get enough air into your lungs through something so small?"

"Louise! One doesn't doubt their own guest." She turned to Erik, who was gamely plodding his way through more food than he'd eaten in years. It was exhausting. "Forgive my niece. She sometimes allows the words to part ways with her tongue too easily."

He swallowed and dabbed at his mouth, refusing to eat one more bite, and smiled at her, shrugging negligently. "Quite all right, signora. I am well aware of her penchant for challenging everything I say." He turned to Sorelli with narrowed eyes. "I assure you, Louise, it is very possible- for I have done it."

For his part, he was enjoying the undivided attention of two attractive women, and preened accordingly. He felt expansive, and Sorelli watched him blossom before her eyes into a very charming gentleman, very easily holding their interest- if her aunt's rapt attention was any indication. He conversed with the two ladies extensively, gleaning much of Louise's life in the past ten years by his subtle questions. In return he told them tales of the opera house, and some of the more illustrious performances played out on its boards. Louise especially was highly amused by his comical narratives concerning the overbearing Carlotta, the brush he painted her with, all too vivid, and barbed with his wonderfully sharp wit. He felt warm in their company- welcomed; a feeling all too rare for one such as he, and relaxed into it as he was plied with the inevitable dessert. To his surprise when he was served the dish of custard with fresh fruit, accompanied by a glass of Marsala wine, he found it to be delicious.

"It is zabaglione, Erik. One of Louise's favorites and now it is also yours, yes?"

"Very much so, Maria. You are indeed a formidable cook," and she blushed at the compliment.

Sorelli watched her friend from the corner of her eye with amusement. Ah, finally something he seems to be enamored by, if the furtive scraping of his spoon on the bottom of the dish was any indication. It only took a small mountain of food to get there, and she looked at her aunt and winked.

All too soon the evening came to an end, and he was startled to find that he had enjoyed himself very much. He once again took Maria's hand in his skeletal one and bowed low over it. "Thank you for a wonderful dinner, signora, and for your hospitality. It is something I never take for granted."

Maria bid him goodbye, making a note to herself to have him to dinner often; he hadn't eaten all that much, but he had praised her culinary skills ardently. He was as Louise had stated, rail thin and odd with his strange eyes which seemed to shine from within, then would suddenly wink out and disappear altogether. But his manners were impeccable and his intellect keen- she had enjoyed his conversation immensely, spoken as it was in that beautiful voice. What God had taken away in looks, had been amply returned in intelligence and tone.

He was also very fond of her niece, and she wasn't certain how she felt about that.

Louise stood by the open door and looked out on the dark street, a fine mist just starting to rise from the still warm ground. "Did you enjoy yourself tonight? I think my Tante Maria is a little taken with you, which means she will work endlessly to fatten you up, so prepare yourself."

He had taken her hands in his, cradling them gently. "She will have to wait a few weeks to begin again. As much food as I've consumed this evening will last me at least that long, thanks to you, odious girl," but his look was tender as he gazed with contentment into her eyes. "It is a rare thing indeed to have two lovely ladies willing to sit down at the dinner table and treat me like any other dinner guest. I thank you for that, Louise," he said softly, and bending low, placed a swift kiss on her knuckles, then straightened and put on his soft felt hat.

She watched as he set off down the street, merging with the night shadows until he was gone from her sight. She turned around and leaned against the door as she contemplated her hand where his lips had only recently touched. A frown marred her brow as she wondered what that tiny kiss meant.

* * *

"But it's true. See for yourself!" She shaded her eyes and looked beyond the footlights, as Debienne and Poligny stood in the back of the theatre with two well dressed gentlemen.

"What are the names of these paragons?" Louise asked teasingly, narrowing her eyes to get a better look.

"That is the Comte and the Vicomte de Chagny. The vicomte is recently back from the navy and I've heard he wanted to meet some ladies in the foyer de la danse before he returns to his duties." Estelle dug her elbow into Louise's side and chortled with glee. "I can't imagine that _child_ wining and dining the likes of me, but if his pockets are deep, I may let him," and she winked at Louise and tossed her head as they watched the four men. She nudged Sorelli again. "There! Forget the little vicomte. His older brother is looking our way. Now _that _man I could sink my teeth into- so to speak," and she giggled when the other woman made a moue of distaste.

He was indeed looking their way, and she stared back, wondering if he would remember a young girl from that long ago spring day, who had plucked a child from under their horse's feet. He stood there talking with the managers; he was a commanding presence, broad shouldered with a proud bearing, and even from this distance, just as handsome as he was ten years ago.

The stage director, Bertrand Bellamy, clapped his hands to get their attention, and the break was over. She watched as the de Chagnys and the managers left the auditorium and the stage became businesslike once more. She put herself back into the mind and frail heart of the young peasant girl unknowingly in love with a duke betrothed to another. The practice violinist began, and Louise moved into the dance, her long, graceful limbs well suited to the rigorous demands of the role. She performed the petite battements with her usual fluidity, following with a series of ballones, and ending in a graceful arabesque. The part of Giselle forced her to concentrate even harder as their opening night approached with disturbing rapidity.

She stumbled in shock when a rolling mass of chords assaulted her ears, and she as well as the others onstage, grabbed their heads and cowered in fear. She recognized it as Bach's Tocatta and Fugue, played staccato in the most fearful and majestic of sounds, bringing rehearsal to a screeching halt and throwing the stage into pandemonium. It was elemental and unbridled power, played with such skill, that out of everyone on that stage, Louise knew exactly who the organist was. Hadn't he told her he would play it someday? And who else would dare to interrupt a rehearsal in such a way?

The massive Cavaille-Coll was only used for the House's lyrical works, and that wasn't very often; apparently someone was trying to rectify that. The magnificent noise thundered around them as though God Himself was producing the flying scales and lugubrious dirge.

It was awful. It was absolutely magnificent. The hairs on her arms and nape rose as she broke out in goosebumps and tears filled her eyes. She pictured him so clearly in the loft; slender body hunched over the organ- master of the House, as his strong, sure fingers raced between manuals, smashing the keys in a frenzy of devotion to his muse, lips peeled back in a wolfish grin, and eyes clamped shut, seeing nothing but the notes swirling behind his eyelids. "What are you about now, my friend?" and she watched as two muscular stagehands and a fireman sprinted backstage, and she had no doubts as to where they were headed. The organ loft. "Erik-?"

As she stood rooted to the floor, several petite rats crept closer to her seeking comfort; Louise turned to see the youngest member of the corps de ballet, twelve year old Edith trembling at her elbow, and threw an arm around her thin shoulders pulling her close.

The swell of tortured notes continued on, the company and crew seemingly in their thrall, when without warning, the virtuoso music ended so suddenly, it left the listeners stunned by the sudden silence, the termination of its dramatic authority and driving rhythm leaving behind a vacuum...

...until someone screamed high and sharp, throwing those onstage into a panic.

* * *

Albert Pampin, one of the firemen kept on-duty at the opera, was followed by two of the scene shifters, as they made their way to the spiral stairs leading to the organ loft. It was a narrow flight of steps, and Pampin swallowed hard as he squinted into the dimness above them. He was not ashamed to admit to his fear; the electric lights installed a few years back were for all their modernity, unable to chase the deep shadows away. The fearsome music was louder at the foot of the steps, and with a hand on the stair bannister, he could feel the vibration of sound quivering beneath his fingers.

He hesitated, and one of the shifters shouted at him, trying to be heard above the ungodly melody descending on them now like a lightning flash, the long roll of thunder being the broken chords of the symphonic organ. "Well, what are you waiting for? On with you then, Pampin," he growled.

Albert turned to the man and his lip curled in a sneer as he stepped out of his way. "After _you_, Dubois," he yelled back. "I see no flames, nor do I smell any smoke. This isn't part of my duties, so on you go," and he waved a hand at the stairs which rose toward the breathtaking din. "That's either the damned ghost up there or Satan himself playing us to Hell!"

"Can't be old Beelzebub! We're climbing up, not going down." The third man jerked his chin in the direction of the music. "That's the ghost, that is," and he hung back, being the youngest of the three and least experienced. It sometimes paid to allow one's superiors to rise above you, so to speak, he reasoned with a sickly smile.

Dubois having put himself on the spot, set a foot on the first riser, and slowly eased himself up to the next. As he climbed, he kept one eye on the gloom ahead of him, and the other glancing backward, making sure his companions were still following behind. He wished with all of his might that the frightful noise would stop, but his next thought started a fine trembling in his limbs. What if it did? The evil at the top of the stairs would be free to attack them, and they needed to have some element of surprise.

It was as he stepped off the very last riser, the unearthly music stopped, and Dubois cried out in alarm at the sudden silence. He cursed himself. Now _it _would know they were on the stairs. He couldn't turn and run back down- there were two others blocking his escape. Terrified, he crossed himself and took another step forward, and as he stared ahead in fear, a monstrous black shape rose up and flew toward him. He screamed in horror as it growled at him and threw out its enormous wings to envelop him in a death grip. Pinwheeling his arms, he backpedaled in haste, coming up against Pampin who was directly behind him, still on the stairs.

Dubois crashed into him and together they fell backward onto the hapless man bringing up the rear. Dubois's last sight were the bestial eyes of the demon, staring into his very soul and attempting to pluck it out. They bounced agonizingly down the narrow stairs, seeming to ricochet off each other, until the young stagehand's leg caught in the stair railing and halted their descent. The noise of the bone snapping was loud as a gunshot to Pampin's ears, as he fought off the dizziness from the bloody gash in his head. When help arrived, it was to a scene of mayhem with three bleeding men, one unconscious, and the other two dazed and moaning in pain.

Louise was in a group of dancers who stood back and watched in horror as the men were laid out on the floor and the doctor was called. Black haired Meg Giry stared at the blood smeared on the stairs and floor, her mouth gaping open like a hooked fish.

"It is the Opera Ghost. My mother would deny it, and if she knew I was talking of such things she would be very angry with me." The sallow faced girl turned to Louise. "She knows the ghost. He is a gentleman she told me, but a very secretive one. Maman does errands for him, and he pays her a few francs, even once leaving her a box of chocolates in Box Five."

"Does he have a name?"

Giry shook her head. "No. I mean, I don't know it. He appears to us like a...a _phantom_ anywhere in the theatre, for I and others have seen him glaring at us with his inhuman eyes from dark corners." He never speaks, and he moves so silently, he is gone before anyone can react. Have you ever seen him, Sorelli?"

She stuck her hands behind her back and crossed her fingers. "Ah...no, I haven't seen anyone like you describe. It's not someone I would forget either, I'm sure."

Meg put a hand on Louise's arm when she caught sight of the Comte de Chagny striding toward them. "Here is our newest patron. Oh, but he is a handsome one, don't you think so?"

Louise turned in surprise as Philippe Georges Marie Comte de Chagny shouldered his way purposely through the ballet company standing nervously around the three prostrate men. His brother Raoul was behind him, closely followed by the two managers. Philippe walked up to the injured men and took one look, then turned to the dancers.

"There is nothing more to see here. Off with you now." His stern glance surveyed them calmly, unerringly stopping on Louise for a longer pause. She couldn't be certain, but those ice blue eyes widened fractionally before moving on.

Meg watched the comte as he applied a clean handkerchief to the bleeding scalp of Pampin the fireman. "He is not so high and mighty, is he? And he seemed to know you," she whispered to Louise.

Louise said nothing, not at all sure if he had recognized her. After all, it had been ten years ago, and she had been a child- and a scruffy one at that. But as they drifted back to the stage, she found herself wondering two things- with the comte as the newest patron of the Garnier, she would as principal ballerina, be expected to entertain him. She tested herself for reaction, and found no unpleasant feelings attached; on the contrary, she found herself looking forward to it.

Her second thought was all about her friend. Had he touched any of those men with the intent of causing injury? She had briefly forgotten who she was dealing with, and it made her uneasy knowing he was just as volatile as ever. She felt a simmering anger at his disregard for her rehearsal, and a fear that he might be getting out of hand. From everything she had learned since coming to the opera house, Erik had merely amused himself with _haunting _the theatre and providing mild thrills for the ballet rats to discuss. With this event, that seemed to be changing, and it worried her.

* * *

_**MM. Poligny and Debienne- Good morning.**_

_**We seem to be at an impasse. I was mistakenly under the impression that we had finally learned to deal with one another. Unfortunately , this is not so. YOU M. Poligny, listen far too much to a skin flint named Debienne who does not wish to part with one centime for the good of this theatre. A pity really, for my salary now includes late interest accrued in the amount of 1,000 francs, on top of the 20,000 already owed to me.**_

_**How did rehearsal go yesterday, gentlemen? Imagine what an organ recital would do, played in the middle of ...oh, say...Act II of Giselle? Quite a few disgruntled ballet aficionados, wouldn't you agree? You have no idea how much I regret the injuries of those in your employ. It needn't have happened if they had kept their wits about them. Tsk tsk. Playing on the stairs at their age.**_

_**Remit my salary to Mother Giry post haste, or suffer the consequences. The Bach tocatta you were privileged to hear for nothing yesterday, will cost you dearly next time. It is your prerogative. And once again, may I remind you that the incomparable La Sorelli still languishes in a broom closet? Remove La Carlotta from HER dressing room at once. Better yet, send her packing back to the Cafe Jacquin- more her style.**_

_**Believe me to be, my dear managers, without prejudice to these little observations.**_

_** Your most humble and obedient servant,**_

_**Opera Ghost**_

* * *

**A/N Was dinner to your liking?**** Or were you like Erik, floundering by the time the custard and Marsala wine showed up****?**** Maria will make a foodie outta that man yet ;) **

**The opera ghost is making his presence known in a more straightforward manner. Perhaps showing off for a certain balleina? Or is he simply in line to manage her business affairs at the Garnier? Either way, I don't think La Sorelli will be amused.**

**Next up- Can a ghost grovel?** _**and s**_**omething wicked this way comes.**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N Everyone had a great time at dinner, I see. Who wouldn't enjoy watching the super skinny dude stuffing himself with food? More zabaglione, Erik dear? By the way, Louise is looking for you.**

* * *

As usual the younger girls in the company were lounging in Sorelli's room after rehearsal. It was indeed a small space compared to Carlotta's, but with Maria's help they had fitted it with a commonplace elegance. A pier-glass, gold brocade sofa, dressing table and a mahogany cupboard provided the necessary furniture, as well as the obligatory dressing screen in one corner of the room. Tasseled carpets lay on the wood floor, and pictures of ballet greats such as Marie Taglioni and Carlotta Grisi adorned the walls, as well as a small painting of the old opera in the rue le Peletier where her mother once danced. The room was stylish and beautiful to the girls of the corps de ballet whose own shared dressing rooms were crowded and impersonal. They would squabble and gossip there until the call-boy's bell rang, but more often than not, they retreated uninvited to Louise's room and made themselves at home. After the first few stabs at evicting them, she gave up in defeat and let them stay.

A pretty dancer named Cecile Jammes was the loudest when it came to the opera ghost and the events which took place two days before. In the spirit of camaraderie and a healthy dose of superstition, she had presented a horseshoe to Sorelli that very morning to ward off bad luck and evil spirits. Louise, with alacrity, placed it on the table in front of the stage-keeper's box.

She had the advantage of everyone else by knowing who the opera ghost was, but like them she was in the dark as to his motives. To think a music aficionado of Erik's ilk would callously interfere with a rehearsal, was not something she would have thought possible. She needed to speak with him, and the sooner the better. He had some explaining to do.

Louise lightly smacked the hand of Estelle who was reaching for the mother of pearl hairbrush sitting on her vanity, the very same one Erik had given her years before. "Touch it again, Taillier, and you'll find yourself out in the hallway and ballet fodder for Monsieur Ghost!" she said firmly, and sat down in front of the mirror.

"You have such nice things, Louise," she said admiringly, looking with longing at the brush.

Sorelli said nothing to that, but made herself a promise to watch the girls better from now on. A few items of hers had gone missing, but to blame one of the rats for it was a little premature. After all, why would someone remove one buckle from her shoe and not the other? More likely, it fell off somewhere when she was walking to and from the Garnier. The same for one of her white gloves- it had simply disappeared. She glanced at the girls on the sofa in their white tulle tutus, their heads close together tittering like two little sparrows over something inane. One sparrow and a canary, she amended, observing Cecile's curly blonde hair.

Estelle shrugged, and flounced over to where Jammes and Meg Giry sat. Giving each of them a dirty look, they moved over reluctantly and made room for her. "Where is the handkerchief I made for you?" Estelle said, as Louise put a white one in her beaded handbag.

She glanced up at her and shook her head. "I had it with me two days ago, but I've misplaced it. I can't find it anywhere."

Jammes snorted in disgust. "That yellow horror with the nasty stitching? I could embroider better than that when I was only ten!"

"Which wasn't so very long ago, was it?" Taillier shot back, sniffing in disdain. "Besides, Sorelli liked it, didn't you?"

"Certainly. You put a lot of yourself into it," and she winked at the other two girls who snorted into their hands, and were again rewarded with dirty looks from Estelle.

Meg watched as Sorelli ran the brush through her hair, the gaslight creating red and gold highlights in the gleaming mass. "Maman says the Comte de Chagny is to be the guest of honor at the party." Giry's black eyes glittered with all the possibilities of dancing in a beautiful gown with a swell such as Philippe de Chagny, and drinking her first sips of champagne. She had tasted the Cassius beer Estelle had offered her once, not enjoying the bitter taste at all, but she reasoned that champagne would be lovely, especially when the dashing comte fetched it for her. She plucked at her skirt, picturing instead, rose colored satin, and glanced slyly at Louise.

"Will you dance with him, I wonder?"

Sorelli regarded her through the vanity mirror, amused at the girl's curiosity and shrugged. "It's not that kind of party, Meg. It's a reception celebrating opening night of Giselle and allowing the company to mingle with illustrious patrons of the Garnier. The comte _is_ an important patron, isn't he? I expect I will be speaking with him at some point." She finished pinning her hair and turned around on the bench. "Shall I mention your name to him in the event that I do?"

Giry colored up, not an easy thing to do with an olive complexion, and she elbowed a laughing Estelle in the ribs. "You're only teasing, I know. He would never look twice at me, but I think he would take a fancy to you, Louise."

Sorelli's eyes softened, and she felt a trace of guilt for teasing the young girl. "How do you know he wouldn't enjoy a conversation with you, Meg? You're as interesting as anyone else around here, and hopefully the talk would get around to something else besides the Ghost," she said tartly, as she faced the mirror again and lightly powdered her face.

Little Jammes looked up in surprise, and with a curious insight, made Louise a trifle uneasy. "Then _you_ are the only one bored with such talk. Why, one would think you have already seen far too much of the ghost and are merely taking him for granted. The attack on the stairs was all the gentlemen could gabble about in the rehearsal room today. They all stood around as though unearthly music was about to descend on them." She giggled. "My mother said she would love to hear a requiem mass played, but the gents would probably run for their lives, ghost or no ghost."

The wealthy subscribers to the opera were permitted to watch the dancers practice in the foyer de la danse, and could converse with those that caught their eye. Louise thought it a meat market for them to pick and choose the girl whom they wished to entertain in private. The San Carlo had followed the same questionable behavior.

"He almost killed Paul," Estelle said, referring to the youngest crew member. "I heard he'll be laid up for weeks as it is, and his wife is having a child! We are all in danger from the ghost, even you, Louise."

Taillier had just hit the nail on its head. The three men had various injuries that Erik had caused; that fact bothered her a good deal. Not that she was being a hypocrite- he _had _committed crimes ten years ago during the time Paris was brought to her knees, as she had too, but that was survival. She would no more rob from someone now than run naked down the street, and she assumed with war's end that her friend would cease as well. That he hadn't, raised a few disturbing questions in her mind; he was making demands of the managers for a salary that he really hadn't earned, and now he seemed inclined to terrorize the company for whatever reason his devious mind could conjure.

Further thought was pushed away, when there came a tap on her door, and Estelle giggled. "Have a care, Louise. It may be the comte come to claim you for a chat already." She glanced at Jammes and snickered. "Maybe it is the little Giry he is after!"

While Meg glowered at them, Cecile put a hand out to Sorelli. "Don't open the door! It just might be the Opera Ghost. He heard you and is disappointed that you find him so very dull," and all three girls erupted into laughter.

"Cretins," Louise muttered and opened it.

An errand boy stood there holding out a note, and thrust it quickly into her hand. She fetched a centime from her bag and handed it to him while quickly reading it, before herding the three dancers out of her room. "Go loiter somewhere else for a change," she said mildly, watching them get reluctantly to their feet and trooping out the door.

As she made her way to the manager's office, she wondered what this little meeting was about. Poligny and Debienne had not been seen for two days, no doubt holed up in their sanctuary with no real urge to calm the fears of the company since the _accident _on the organ loft stairs. If not for the injuries, they would no doubt be eager to hand the ghost a big fat contract to sign, and hire him on the spot as music director. If they could find him, of course. His absence spoke volumes to her and she was quite sure it was intended. She knew he was watching, but for whatever reason, he was avoiding a direct confrontation. Hiding from her perhaps? She snorted in disbelief. _Yes, and you will grow tiny wings on your feet, Sorelli._

She stopped in front of the manager's office and started to knock, then slowly lowered her hand. A woman's voice was raised in anger, and Louise was hesitant to interrupt the tirade, for she thought _her _name was mentioned. There was the placating murmur of a man, soft and cajoling, and once again the woman launched into a flurry of recriminations. Before she could move away from the door, it was wrenched open and La Carlotta the reigning diva came through it in high dudgeon, her lavender gown clashing horribly with her too red hair.

Her glittering eyes fell on Louise and her anger erupted again, only this time focused on the cause for her rage. "So you theenk you can waltz right in here and demand the best dressing room? I had to work for eet, you leetle nino mamado!" ignoring the fact that Louise was tall enough to be looking down her nose at the enraged diva, who cast a furious glance over her shoulder at the two managers standing helplessly in the middle of their office. "Eet seems though, dat theese...theese toadying _fools _can't say no to a preetty face who has not proven she can sell teekets! You have not heard the last from me," and with one more hard stare up at Louise, she swept from the office.

Sorelli, the entire time, stood silently in confusion, not sure why she needed to defend herself against this verbal attack. Just as an answering spark of anger lit her eyes at this uncalled for assault, Carlotta was gone. Arthur Debienne cleared his throat and said in his most pacifying voice. "I sincerely apologize for that, mam'selle. It was unwarranted. Won't you come in?"

Once she was seated, she observed the two managers and noted their nervous demeanor with her own unease. She was the first one to break the tense silence. "Well, that was interesting! That was a lot of temper- even for Carlotta, but it would help me greatly if I knew exactly what put it there," looking expectantly at them.

M. Debienne retreated behind his desk and sat down heavily in his chair. "She doesn't want to relinquish her dressing room to you," he said curtly, and reached into his desk, withdrawing a very large cigar. "May I?"

At her nod, he grabbed a match and lit the tip. Puffing away with relieved satisfaction, a fragrant tobacco cloud soon filled the room. Eying Louise's expectant look, he shook out the match and tossed it in the ashtray. "For matters I don't wish to go into at this moment, you have been given the dressing room which Carlotta now occupies."

Before he could say anything further, Poligny approached her and said quietly. "We ah...we...Arthur and m-myself, think it best if you take the dressing room at the end of the hall. It is far nicer than the one you now have, and better for all concerned." He followed this with a sickly smile and a quick look behind him. "I-Isn't that so, Arthur?"

Debienne puffed furiously on his cigar and shrugged, "It would seem we have little say in the matter." He too glanced around the office and back at Louise. "You have a friend in high places, mam'selle."

"Nothing at all wrong with that, is there?" Poligny replied, his sharp glance at the other man carrying a warning.

Between the two managers, Louise had always preferred the quieter and more polished Claude Poligny, but at the moment he was making just as much sense as Debienne- which was to say, absolutely none.

It suddenly occurred to her that there was a third party in these proceedings; one that wasn't present for this conversation. Louise looked at both men, their odd behavior finally getting through to her. She felt Erik's controlling hand. He was playing very nicely the part of puppet master, and making them all dance to his merry little tune. Of course, she realized he was merely trying to make her more comfortable in his opera house, but that knowledge didn't help. She refused to dance any faster than she was now, and especially not to any melody _he_ chose. Looking steadily from one manager to the other, she said quietly,

"No."

* * *

"_No, __Louise_?" The words were a silky purr in her ear, but the speaker was nowhere in sight. She was on the east side of the building in the Rotunde des Abonnes, and on her way out. She had been in the process of tugging on her gloves, when she heard his dulcet voice and wasn't fooled. He could make that divine instrument run the gamut from deep stentorian tones rolling like thunder, to those at the upper registers, flawlessly sweet and so very wistful it made one's heart ache to hear it. That this utterance was soft and pleasant to the ear meant nothing, for the purple flowers of the nightshade are pleasing to the eye, but deadly all the same.

She canted her head as though listening closely. "No to what, Erik? No to your going behind my back to move me willy nilly from my dressing room to one _you _deem better suited for me? Or, no... you don't approve of my decision? For it is mine, not yours."

"Getting you the better dressing room isn't what I would consider a hardship. And the answer is no- I don't approve of your decision." She turned around and faced one of the red marble pillars where he had just appeared- an upright shadow in a room of warmth and beauty. "You simply made it to thwart me. I would like to know why. Explain this, if you please."

"In case you haven't noticed, I am all grown up now."

"Trust me, I have noticed."

"My aunt doesn't make my decisions. Why should you?"

"Why, indeed," and said nothing more.

"Explain this, if you please," deftly turning his own words back on him.

He leaned against the pillar, casually crossing his arms over his chest, and tilted his head curiously at her. "Perhaps I thought you would be pleased, but oddly, I find you are not. You did seem charmed by the room, and it has direct access to the cellars through the mirror- a much better arrangement for your visits to my home."

"Yes, of course. I see it now. With me in that room, you thought you could come and go whenever you pleased, is that it? Isn't Carlotta enough woman for you? She certainly despises _me _now for trying to eject her out of the room she has held for years!" She placed both hands on her hips as she faced him, her anger mounting at his duplicity.

He lost his casual stance and straightened to his full height. "Enough woman for-" His eyes widened fractionally in understanding, and if she didn't know better, hurt. "Is _that _what this is about? I am not a lecher, Louise, no matter what you might think. I merely wished to see you in more comfortable surroundings than that...that _cupboard _they put you in! You are prima ballerina- why can't you act the part? Carlotta, the Screeching Monkey has no problem holding the questionable title of diva. If I could, I would see her ejected from this opera house, for she merely brings the very idea of music to a new low every time she performs!" His voice had risen, building himself up to a righteous fury. "I would give my right arm to have a soprano worth her salt in this theatre- a voice to make the very angels weep."

He took a deep breath, and with that iron will he possessed, slowly released his anger and frustration. He shook his head. "I would have had her gone too, except for her earthy appeal to the real lecher of this House. One very lascivious manager by the name of Debienne who allows his gonads to rule his head!"

She sighed, and glanced around quickly. A furious and loud opera ghost would never do. She put up a hand, palm out. "Please! Let's not argue. Accept my thanks for the thoughtful gesture and leave it alone. I'm content where I am." She eyed him with displeasure, her cheeks flushed rosy, and he thought her very appealing in her indignation. "She called me a name. I'm not sure what, but it didn't sound very nice."

"It wasn't meant to be nice. She called you a suckling child."

"A _what?_"

"Just that. Carlotta is not very original. Simply loud."

"And you heard this from the hallway where you were spying?"

"No, I was in the office spying," he replied amused.

"That's not much better."

"It was for me. It proves how cowardly Debienne and Poligny are when faced with an ill-bred termagant whose ego runs larger than her talent."

"Now _that _I understand!"

"Of course you do. Allow me to do your insulting for you from now on. I know every derogatory name there is in several languages."

"Oh? Now you're a scholar of questionable vocabulary?"

"Your Erik is a veritable repository for the hurled insult. Some quite colorful and having a lot to do with whom my mother might have f-...been _attached _to- much less painful than being hit with a brick, I assure you."

"It still hurt though, didn't it?" she said softly.

"Yes."

His look had become hard and impenetrable, and she eyed him a little nervously. "I have another matter I wish to discuss with you."

"And what might that be?" His manner had quickly returned to calm, throwing off his anger as one would remove a too warm blanket, but his eyes had taken on a watchful gleam. He already knew what she intended to say and forestalled her. "Did you enjoy the recital then, Louise?"

She disliked the smugness in his voice. "At the cost of three injured crewmen? Of course not! Why did you do it?"

He turned when footsteps approached where they were standing, and quickly backed away, disappearing once again behind the pillar, and Louise huffed an exasperated breath. _This is far from over, my friend_.

Uri saw Louise standing alone and made right for her. "Just the lady I wish to see! Are you going to your home now?"

She knew Erik was nearby, and decided to use it to her advantage. "I was actually on my way to visit Paul and his wife and see how they're getting on. With his injuries," she raised her voice knowing her friend was listening, "from chasing that _fiend_, he's unable to work for the next two months. His wife is due to have her child soon, and they'll have no money. Care to accompany me? It's not far from here- just over on the rue Gluck."

Uri thought a moment. He really didn't want to visit the injured man, but dinner with La Sorelli would be his prize. "Certainly, and afterward we can have some supper, yes?"

She took his arm and smiled at him. "Yes," and without a single backward glance, she left the theatre and a seething phantom behind.

* * *

"I'll be in the garden!" she called to her aunt as she went out the back door with the pieces of chicken left over from their dinner. The scarred tom cat from the alley had followed her home one afternoon last week, and she was in the habit of feeding him after the dishes were washed and put away. He was often to be found lounging on one of the benches near the fountain. As night cloaked everything in its deep velvet mantle, she sat beside him for a while as he ate his dinner with tiny deliberate bites, as though relishing each and every one.

"You're very meticulous in your table manners, I will give you that," she said with a laugh. "Are you making yourself at home, monsieur?" He cocked one tattered ear in her direction as he licked the plate clean. "I'll consider that a yes."

The cat sat back on his haunches and proceeded to wash his paws.

"You are much like your namesake- precise and fastidious to a fault." He turned and blinked lazily at her, one golden eye surveying her calmly as a steady purr rose from his black chest. "Your arrogant regard is also similar to his." The animal's face was a road map of bloody fights, one eye socket empty and grotesque. He was appealing in his very ugliness- a tough, veteran fighter, bowing to no one. The cat shifted around when she held her fingers out to him, and in a rare moment of affection, touched the tip of his rough tongue to the back of her hand. She reached out slowly to fondle his ears and he nervously permitted it. The tentative devotion from the old cat warmed her and she chuckled, "Monsieur, behave yourself! Have a care where you put your caresses."

"And where would that be?" Erik said mildly as he approached the bench where Louise sat. She put a hand to her chest, startled at the way he seemed to materialize from nowhere. The cat watched him guardedly, ears back as he exchanged one yellow eyed stare for another. Louise watched the battle of wills between man and beast. She snickered. Her two men.

He was incensed earlier that day when Louise left the opera house arm in arm with the Russian buffoon. She had cut him to the quick when she flung the label of fiend at him. It was an appellation he no doubt deserved, but standing behind that pillar and listening to the murmur of her soft voice as she walked away from him, he felt less a fiend and more an outcast in his own theatre. He had been watching the apartment building for her return, and was relieved when she arrived home in a timely manner. He needed to explain a few things to the chit.

"This is a pleasant surprise! Tante Maria will be happy to see you again, Erik."

"Oh? I must have heard you wrong then, for I could have sworn you thought me nothing more than a...let's see...a _fiend, _wasn't it, when you left with your Russian lothario this afternoon, Louise?"

She hung her head, knowing why she had said it, but regretting it now. "That was bad of me, wasn't it? You are not a fiend- I take it back. But really, as lovely as you play, how can you justify it during a rehearsal _and _at the expense of three injured men?"

He eyed the cat one last time, before settling beside the young woman on the bench and removed his hat, running a hand through his sparse hair. "To clarify, _I _did nothing to harm anyone. It was that fool Dubois. He startled when I left the organ loft and the idiot panicked. He fell back on the others- he is the reason for the injuries, not I."

"All right. That's good to know, but he was frightened of _you, _my friend, as was everyone when you began to play so forcefully!"

He looked at her indignantly. "Well, of course it was forceful! How else am I expected to play Bach?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it! Giselle goes on in two weeks time and every practice is important. To me and to this theatre, which means to you as well." She sighed and lowered her voice. "Why?"

"For a number of reasons. First and foremost, my salary. They needed to be taught a lesson, and I simply delivered it." He cut his eyes sideways at her. "In a most delightful way of course."

"Oh, of course," she said snidely. "And what else?"

"The dressing room. You deserve it much more than Carlotta."

"I don't want it."

"Yes, you made that perfectly clear to me," he replied bitterly.

She sighed in exasperation, but nonetheless reached for his hand. As with her other _man, _he allowed her touch. She grasped his thin fingers and threaded them with hers, never realizing the amount of pleasure she brought him. "Come now," she said softly. "It's not that I don't appreciate your care of my welfare. I do. I really do. But I'm new here, and I don't need to make enemies so soon. My efforts now are on the coming performance- my first in Paris. Surely you can understand my concerns at this time?"

He stared at their joined hands and at last nodded, thrilled at the feel of her warm skin against his cold flesh. He raised his eyes to her face. "Very well. We will drop it- for now."

She opened her mouth to protest, and decided to say nothing more about the room, but she was still troubled by his recent actions. "You won't interfere with rehearsal again, will you, Erik? I don't want to see anyone else hurt and that includes you," she said anxiously.

"Louise. For what it is worth, you have my word not to interrupt any more of _your _rehearsals if there is need to do so. Carlotta's will suffice. Better?"

She felt the grin threatening to break out, but schooled her mouth into a prim line and cleared her throat. "You will do what you think best, I'm sure," and started to withdraw her hand from his.

He tightened his hold, loath to break their connection, but she insisted and tugged at her hand until he let go. He sighed in disappointment, her touch managing to comfort and torment him all at the same time. "Just so you know- I am on to you, Sorelli. I cannot help but notice that you didn't ask me to desist for La Carlotta's sake as well."

"I'm not a fool. If you're going to make an example of someone, it may as well be her," she said lightly. "As long as no one is harmed. Now, come and have a cup of tea with us!"

He had risen to his feet and stood there running the brim of his hat through thin fingers. "No. Thank you. I have a few errands to run. Good night to you, Louise. Give Maria my regards." He bowed slightly to her and was gone as quickly as he had arrived.

She sat on a while longer, wondering why all of a sudden, he had felt the need to hurry. She just realized that his familiar was gone as well and snorted. "Am I _that _dull?"

* * *

She tottered down the street, wishing she had left the restaurant while it was still daylight, for most shops were closed now and not too many people were about. She had bid her friends Elise and Sophie goodbye in front of the cafe, the three of them having enjoyed a late supper, laughing and talking of things all young women talked about, namely young men. She only had a few streets to go before reaching her home near the rue de Provence. A soft breeze had sprung up and she heard the rustle of leaves in the trees lining the road. Over on the next street was the steady clop of hooves from a passing carriage, but all too soon it was quiet again. Her steps faltered and she listened carefully for something else; the slight scrape of a shoe on pavement? Hearing nothing but the wind she sighed in relief, but nevertheless, began walking a little faster. Nervously, she approached the cavernous dark of the side street she had traversed so easily that very afternoon on the way to meet her friends.

It was decidedly different at night, the road appearing to wait sentiently for her to begin her walk down its narrow, old cobbles before its yawning black mouth swallowed her up. She tittered anxiously, wondering if it would be better to go up a few blocks to the opera house and backtrack to her street from there. But it would take much longer to get home and she was growing weary. Making her choice, she gathered her meager courage around her and turned slowly into the side street, the faint glow of the lamppost ahead seeming miles away.

The buildings on both sides of the road were old and decrepit, leaning tiredly toward each other and nearly blocking out the faint moonlight from directly overhead. It was quiet. No crying babies, no murmured voices, or shouting ones for that matter. Not even a dog gave tongue at her passing. She hadn't realized in the light of day, how rundown the neighborhood was; hadn't noticed the decay in her eagerness to meet her friends, or the abandoned and derelict feel to it.

She began humming a tune, the sound of her voice tiny and feeble to her ears. She was nearly to the lamppost and away from the press of buildings, chiding herself for her silly fears, when an arm reached out and yanked her off her feet, dragging her into a shadowy doorway. The scream which tore from her throat was cut off when a pale hand covered her mouth and bore down brutally with iron strength. Her struggles against that unbreakable hold were useless, and her last cohesive thought was completely inane for her dire situation- how dank that hand smelled. It was the mustiness of her grand-mere's root cellar.

His arms tightened on the girl, and he leaned down and hissed softly in her ear, "Yes, you'll do."

* * *

**Not a good development. In fact, it's downright wicked. And Erik didn't exactly grovel, but at least one good thing was accomplished- Sorelli can get even with Carlotta and doesn't have to lift a finger to do it. **


	17. Chapter 17

The ballet master, Rudolf Baucher, stared at each and every one of them as they stood in the foyer de la danse behind the stage. "You are not dancing so much as lunging mindlessly! There will be no dreams realized when this lot takes the stage Tuesday night, and I would suggest that some of you forgo lunch and begin looking for work at the Comique." He glared at Louise in particular, his lank hair falling across his brow. "That includes you, Sorelli. You're the principal ballerina, not an inexperienced rat just learning how _not _to fall on her ass!"

Louise raised her chin, her cheeks flaming in anger, but she held her temper in check. His frustration was warranted this time, and she quickly pulled herself together, concentrating on the dance. For the rest of that afternoon, rehearsal limped along until six o'clock, when Baucher with a weary sigh, threw his hands in the air and told them to go home. As Louise prepared to leave the salon, a slightly built man broke away from the small knot of gentlemen who had been watching rehearsal with sharp eyes and lustful hearts and approached her.

She was prepared to put down his expectations, not at all interested in a liaison with him, but she was mildly surprised when she recognized him. He reached shyly for her hand, and gallantly bowed over it. "La Sorelli. Good evening to you. I need only a moment of your time, if I may?"

Louise was tired and wished only to leave. She would be staying on at the theatre instead of going home for the day, as she was meeting Erik in the library and having dinner with him. She looked at the fair haired young man, his smooth face open and honest. "You may, Vicomte de Chagny," she said, smiling faintly. She wasn't eager to give the young man a set-down; he was pleasant enough, but she had no interest in being any man's paramour, especially this downy cheeked lad's.

He relaxed a little and smiled sweetly. "I was wondering if you would introduce me to Estelle," he said quietly, glancing over at the young woman as she leaned against the wall and spoke with one of the gentlemen, laughing at something just said. "You seem to be on very good terms with her, and I can't seem to catch her alone no matter how hard I try."

Louise laughed at this, feeling slightly sorry for the little vicomte. It would seem he was out of his league when it came to the ladies of the corps de ballet. "Forgive me, but wouldn't you rather meet a young woman of your own social class? It doesn't seem to me as though your heart is in the pursuit."

He colored to the roots of his hair and hung his head. To her he was nearly the same boy that long ago day near the Madeleine. "There's the crux of it. It's not. This is my brother's idea, mademoiselle. He claims that I need the exposure to different experiences and people. That I'm far too sheltered." He looked at her indignantly. "Sheltered! Have I not already been to sea for three months? I am a seasoned sailor, mam'selle and a man grown!" He took a deep breath and smiled sheepishly. "All right, he may have meant socially. My aunts, although very dear to me, are fairly insulated themselves, I suppose. But I do listen to Philippe. He is the best of brothers, so I simply chose your friend over there out of desperation," he met her eyes briefly and added, "although she _is _pretty."

Sorelli swallowed another laugh, and took him by the arm. "Then let us go over and be introduced, monsieur and I promise not to let on to Mademoiselle Taillier that she was chosen out of extreme necessity. We will set this to rights, _and _please your odious brother for making you talk to beautiful dancers! Such a hardship for you."

He blushed, knowing she was teasing him and found he rather liked it. Louise watched his face, touched by his obvious shyness and resolved to behave herself.

"You may call me Raoul if you like. And if I may be so bold, mam'selle, my brother has commented on _your _beauty. He thinks he's had the pleasure of meeting you somewhere before, but can't place it. You know, I think he's right. You do look familiar. _Have_ we met before?"

Louise intended to save that particular story for the comte. "Perhaps."

"Well then, maybe I can return the favor and reintroduce him to you after the ballet. I believe I will be doing him a great service!"

She was amused by his attempts at gallantry. He was a pleasant young man and near her own age, but for the life of her, she thought of him as much younger. "I would be honored to meet your brother, monsieur. I believe though, that an introduction has already been arranged at the reception following the performance."

"It has indeed," he said haltingly, as they approached the lovely Estelle and a gentleman acquaintance of the vicomte's.

"Louise, listen to this! Someone left an enormous amount of money in a basket of fruit on Paul's doorstep the other night. Curious, isn't it?"

"Very. Any idea who?"

Estelle leaned toward Louise and whispered into her ear. "Myself, I think it was the Comte de Chagny. It's something I'm sure he would do."

Sorelli wasn't so certain herself, but whoever _was_ the angel of mercy for Paul and Isabelle, he was more than generous. She made the introductions and left them to it, grinning when Estelle rolled her eyes at her while listening to the bashful vicomte.

She hurried to change her clothing, and rushed through the Garnier to meet Erik in the Emperor's Pavilion. Her affection for him was tinged with exasperation; he was no doubt hiding behind some pillar or in a dark corner, comfortable in his obscurity the same as any spider would be. He was her shadow friend, for she refused to think of him as le Fantome. He was becoming quite infamous, and seemed to be enjoying his notoriety. She felt the silence of the House pushing down on her; most of the company had already left the building, chasing more exciting pursuits at a cafe or perhaps a tryst with one of the subscribers present during their very bad rehearsal.

"Slow down, you silly girl! Have you never heard of decorum?" His light amused voice was in her ear, and she stopped and began turning one way, then the other, looking for the man. She was underneath one of the curved wooden stairs which led to the upper gallery. "Up here, my dear." She stepped back and watched as he descended the steps silently, his movements very much like a cat, sure-footed and nimble.

"What were you doing up there?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Reading, what else?"

"Have you been waiting long? Rehearsal went over a little. Rudolf wasn't very happy with us today."

"Yes, and he was right, you know. Deplorable performances for a debut only a handful of days from now. Yours was especially poor."

"Oh well, _thank you_ for that vote of confidence," her indignation plain. "I feel ever so much better now," as they walked through the empty theatre and descended the marble steps of the grand staircase.

He paused as he opened the door for her, and they passed out of the Garnier into a balmy evening in the city, the lights winking on in the deepening gloom of dusk. Before them was the sweeping view down the Avenue de l'Opera, the street busy with carriages and pedestrians rushing to get their shopping done before the stores closed for the day.

"Head in the clouds, Louise?" He had taken her by the elbow and was leading her down the steps onto the rue Scribe. He looked sideways at her, admiring the sweep of lashes on her pale skin and the pink high up on her cheekbones. "Perhaps...oh, a certain member of the peerage is causing you to daydream? He is a very pretty boy, no doubt, but the type I would have thought dull for one such as you."

She studied him as they walked, his steps never faltering as he guided her along the dark street. His tone had been light, but she knew it hid a wealth of emotions. "I'm not certain what that is supposed to mean, Erik. Just who _is _my type since you're so sure of it yourself?" She didn't wait for an answer, but plunged ahead. "The vicomte wasn't interested in me, nor I in him. He merely wished an introduction to Estelle and I provided it." She slipped her arm through her friend's, and noted the tightening of muscles. It was a thin arm, but capable of a wiry strength that usually surprised most people. She shook it a little. "Out with it! Who _is_ my type?"

He grunted. "Certainly not that dandified jackanapes! He would bore you within a week, I dare say." They had been walking alongside the opera and he turned, halting before a large iron door, and removed an elaborate key from his coat. He held it up for her inspection. "This is yours and it opens this door," and handed the key to Louise, indicating for her to use it. "You no doubt used this entrance before, but now it remains locked. This will take you to my home quicker, and it is trap free, therefore, you may use it with impunity. You are always welcome here." His eyes glinted down at her, the enigmatic look in them, there and gone before she could analyze it.

She worked the key into the slot, gave it a twist, and he opened it. There was just enough light in the passage to see by, which had always surprised her. She remembered using this door in what felt like a lifetime ago. "Where is the light coming from?"

He pointed high above them. "Vents set into the walls along this side of the building. Only on the blackest of nights will you need a lantern."

As they walked, Louise recalled what everyone had been discussing all day. "Did you know a woman was murdered last night not very far from here? It was in the rue de Provence." He was silent for so long, she thought he wasn't going to say anything at all. "Erik?"

"Yes. I knew."

"She was strangled, but before she died, s-she was...she was-"

He put a hand up to stop her. "Yes. I understand you. Unfortunate for the lady, I'm sure. I prepared a roast chicken for your dinner. Hungry?"

She halted abruptly and turned to him. "Did you hear me, Erik? She was killed and tossed aside like so much trash. Don't you think she deserves a little of your...your pity?"

"What is it you wish me to say, Louise? Do you want me to mouth weak platitudes and false sorrow for someone I have never met?" He stepped a little closer to her in the passage and reached out a cool hand to her cheek, stroking it with one callused finger. "If it had been you, I would be inconsolable and filled with a terrible grief," he said quietly and drew away. "Now, let's go have that dinner, then I will see you home. All right?"

She looked at him a moment more then sighed. "Very well. I _am _hungry." But as they arrived at his little home, she wondered at his casual acceptence of the ravishment and murder of a young girl.

* * *

"...and what handsome gent sent you this enormous vase of flowers? They are gorgeous!" Estelle read the card and turned to Sorelli who was seated at the vanity. "Who's Erik?"

Maria Renaldi, putting the finishing touches to Louise's chignon, turned from her task and nodded at the red roses. "Beautiful, no? Erik is such a-"

"It's such a nice name, isn't it? But I have no idea who that would be," Sorelli interjected quickly, and Maria looked curiously at her niece. Hadn't Louise told her they were from Monsieur St. Clair? A single glance from her though, closed her mouth with a snap. "I''m going to be late if I don't hurry. I will see you later, Estelle. Try not to drink all the champagne in the room."

"Louise, you are a girl with no sense of what is important!" She laughed lightly and threw Sorelli a kiss before yanking the door open and floating into the hallway, happy with a successful debut of Giselle, and intent on celebrating it with wine and handsome gentlemen.

Maria went to the lacquered table and bent down to the roses. "They are lovely, cara. Erik is a good man to you!"

Louise laughed as she dabbed a little perfume behind her ears. "Well, I don't know about _good_, but he does have excellent taste in flowers. You should see his home- baskets of them everywhere!"

She bit her lip and regarded her aunt in the mirror, carefully choosing her words. "Tante, no one here knows about Erik. H-He would like to keep it that way, I think."

Maria hid her surprise well, but couldn't hide her pity. "Ah. I see now. Is it because of his face? Poor man. People can be so cruel, can't they?"

She stood up and took her aunt's arm. "Yes, they can. But all the same, he is a proud man, and has no patience with pity of any kind, even the well-meaning variety," and squeezed Maria's arm. "Shall we join everyone in the Rotonde du Glacier?"

As with most of the opera house, the Ice Room was beautifully decorated with rich detail, and the round Glacier room in particular was no exception. It had beautiful tapestries by Gobelins representing the twelve months of the year, each one portraying a different food and drink. It was linked to the Grand Foyer on the east side of the building and was often used as a setting for sorbets and refreshments.

Maria nodded. "Of course. I will do as you say." She put a hand on Louise's arm. "I won't say a word about him. You may depend on it. But you are the prima ballerina, Louise, and you danced your best tonight, child. Your father would have been so proud. I know I am."

They had begun walking, when Louise turned back to her room. "Blast! I forgot my shrug, dear. Start walking and I'll catch up to you."

She stepped inside the room again and walked quickly over to the wall hook where her jacket was hanging. She no sooner snatched it up, when the room went dark. She felt a light caress on one cheek and huffed, "Can't you simply enter a room the same way we all do, Erik? Why so much drama? And could I please have some light?"

"The lady requests light," and the warm glow of the gas light returned. She regarded her friend, who now wore the formal garb of a gentleman who frequented the opera; black tailcoat, white bow tie, and satin figured waistcoat. He held a silk top hat in one gloved hand and bowed elegantly. "Does the lady require anything else?"

"Erik, you look...you look- different. Very distinguished." She stared up at the white silk mask, and caught the telltale gleam of amber eyes. "Thank you for the roses. They are lovely."

"Very welcome, La Sorelli. You were a credit to your calling tonight. You will be the toast of Paris, I'm sure," he said softly.

They stared at one another, and she was the first to drop her eyes. "I'll be late if I don't hurry, and they are expecting me to mingle with the subscribers for an hour or so. Care to escort the prima ballerina to the Ice Room?" She swore she saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but considered it only a trick of the light.

"That wouldn't be a very good idea, Louise." He plopped his hat on his head and turned to the door. "But don't let me stop you. Mustn't keep the gentlemen waiting." His gentle tone had disappeared, only to gain one with a brittle edge.

His mood had change so quickly, she could only gape at him in confusion. "But where are you going? I thought we were-"

"_You_ are going hobnobbing with the patrons while _I_ go for a stroll and get some fresh air. I will however return later and escort you home. Good evening to you," and was gone.

"Well, fine, Erik," she muttered to the closed door. "I'll just escort myself to the Ice Room, shall I?"

Moody friend aside, she was running late now, and sure to have Arthur Debienne staring down his large, corpulent nose at her. She didn't see the man bent over as she rounded a gold leaf column and collided with his shoulder, nearly knocking him to the floor. She would have fallen herself, but he reacted quickly and pulled her upright with one hand.

A flustered Louise straightened her skirts and hastened to apologize as she bravely looked at him. Oh, monsieur! I'm so... Comte de Chagny!" she gasped, her face reddening in dismay. Hearing a rustling of petticoats, she looked gratefully away from those icy blue eyes filled with mirth, only to see Estelle at their feet, crawling on all fours. Her mouth grimly tightened at the sight.

The comte dressed in formal evening wear, released her arm, and she pasted a smile on her face, embarrassment going to mortification very quickly. She watched as Taillier scooped something up and continued her ludicrous journey across the floor, nearly treading on Sorelli's shoes. Louise bent slightly toward her and hissed sotto voce, "Just _what_ do you think you are doing, you little simpleton?"

"Her necklace broke, and she is recovering all of the beads," Philippe whispered back, trying hard to keep a straight face. He was enjoying himself very much. "I believe it belonged to a family member. Isn't that so, mam'selle?" he innocently inquired, to which Estelle nodded eagerly as her fingers closed on another wayward bead.

Louise looked at him, feeling as though her face was on fire. The man must have ears like a donkey, she thought glumly. "Estelle is always doing things like this. I'm often surprised she took up dancing, to tell the truth," and she stared at Taillier again, her sparking eyes promising retribution sometime in the near future.

Estelle sat back on her heels and admonished her friend, "You don't mean that, Sorelli. After all, I make you look good by comparison, don't I?" Estelle said, her grin fading as she glanced up, noticing Louise's sour face for the first time. "Oh stop being so hoity-toity! My necklace broke, and the comte was good enough to help me pick up the beads. I think that's all of them now," she muttered, as she cradled them in her hands. Philippe gallantly reached a hand down and helped her up. Estelle looked into his amused eyes and felt tongue tied all of a sudden. "Thank you for your help. I'll uh...I'll just put these somewhere safe for now."

Philippe, always the gentleman, produced a spotless white handkerchief and directed her to place the beads in it as it lay on his palm. With a quick movement, he wrapped the bit of cloth around them into the shape of a poke, and with a flourish presented it to her. "All done up nicely, Mademoiselle Taillier. Great Grandmere's necklace safe for future generations to enjoy."

Estelle was all smiles, and would have lingered to enjoy a little flirting with the handsome noble, but one look at Sorelli's face, sent her hurrying off, leaving Louise alone with Philippe.

She turned to him and smiled. "It would seem that the ladies of the ballet are quite a bit of trouble to you, comte. I offer my apologies for myself and Mademoiselle Taillier. You have been most gracious and I for one am grateful to you. It's not everyday that a gentleman can remain tactful when a young woman decides to crawl around on the floor in front of him."

A smile continued to hover on his well cut lips, and he looked very attractive at that moment, and very approachable. "I wouldn't have missed this little interlude for the world; very entertaining, _and _I am gratified to have been of some help, mam'selle. If I'm not mistaken, you were on your way to the Ice Room for the reception? Permit me to escort you there," and with a gracious nod to him they started walking. "It seems _I_ am the one in your debt after that performance tonight. It was quite wonderful, and you shone very bright as the prima ballerina. An enchanting vision, if I may say so."

"You may," she said lightly.

He cocked his head to the side and studied her. "My brother is in the right of it. You _do _look familiar. He said you would remind me of a meeting we had at some time in the past, but I'm sure I would have remembered it."

She studied him in return. She had grown up in the interim, considering herself barely recognizable from that skinny fourteen year old girl. He had slipped easily into his forties looking just as fit as he had ten years ago. Maybe even more so, she reasoned. He wore the mantle of importance and power well, and at first glance, his blue eyes were cold, giving the appearance of austerity. In reality though, he was a kind man and well liked by everyone. Louise could see why. She decided to tell him where they had met, but not yet.

She remained silent until they had availed themselves of champagne, and Debienne and Poligny congratulated her on a successful turn as Giselle. The comte remained at her side throughout this discourse, and after the two managers excused themselves, Philippe took Louise by the elbow and led her to a secluded corner of the rotunda.

"I claim the next thirty minutes of your time, mam'selle. I will brook no interference from managers or other gentlemen." The twinkle in his somber eyes belied his grave tone, and she smiled.

"But of course, comte. I am yours."

"One could only wish," he replied gallantly. "Raoul informs me that you remember another time we met. Remind me of it, for I am in the dark as to the when. I don't think I would have forgotten you," and his smile lightened his face to that of a much younger man.

Her answering grin included a dimple that he found absolutely charming. "Oh, I think you did very easily. It was all of ten years ago when a fourteen year old girl snatched a child from under your horse's feet." Her eyes crinkled in amusement as she sipped her champagne and watched his valiant effort to place the scene she was giving him. She was nearly on a level with the comte, him being a mere two inches taller than she. Louise saw when recognition dawned in his eyes, and he threw back his head and laughed.

"I remember! You grabbed that child and kept him from being trampled. Well, I can see why I didn't know you," he said admiringly, "you _have _changed quite a bit."

"Well, of course I did! That was ten years ago." They were interrupted by several gentlemen approaching her to offer their felicitations, and Louise eventually excused herself to make a circuit of the room and mingle with the opera's other subscribers. But after two hours of this, her smile was slipping and she wished only to relax after the grueling day.

She was quietly attempting to leave a group of people wanting to discuss every aspect of the performances that night. Maria had already taken a cab home pleading weariness, and Sorelli wished to do the same. Her head was starting to pound from the overload of adrenalin and exertion, and her stays were becoming uncomfortable with the need to breathe freely, when the comte appeared at her elbow. "I think you've done very well, mam'selle. They have taken their pound of flesh," and he nodded at the managers in the corner of the room. "May I see you home?"

She looked at him in relief. "Yes, you may, sir. You have just managed to read my mind. Let us leave now before I have to explain one more time that I wasn't actually hovering above the stage in Act II. I assure you, my feet _were _touching the floor."

"Count me in with those who accused you of floating above the stage, for I admit to the same belief. You were an absolute enchantment for everyone in the audience tonight."

His gloved fingers grasped her elbow and guided her from the room, and as they walked to the entrance, she decided to ask him if it was he that left the money for Paul and his family. "For if you did, it was very good of you, comte!"

"First, call me by my given name, if you please. It happens to be Philippe. Secondly, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Although you are in the right of it. It is a fine thing to have done, but you'll have to look elsewhere for your benefactor, for it wasn't I, Mademoiselle Sorelli."

She glanced at him as they strolled out the doors of the Subscriber's Rotunda and approached the line of carriages awaiting the beau monde. "It's Louise. I don't suppose it really matters, does it? Paul _will_ recover and he and his wife have been provided with enough funds to see them through the worst of it. I'm just thankful that no one was killed that day." A barouche was rolling toward them, pulled by a pair of handsome bays and stopped in front of the couple.

She laughed as he handed her in. "I could become used to this after a while. A carriage at my beck and call. Estelle will be insanely jealous!" She was merely teasing, although it _was _nice to have a man seeing to her every wish.

Philippe leaned in toward her and said quietly. "I think that can be arranged...Louise."

Her smile faltered a little, not wanting to give him the wrong impression. "I was only teasing you a little," she said as he looked deep into her eyes.

"I wasn't," he replied, his eyes serious.

She looked away from him as he handed her into the carriage, conveniently forgetting that another was to have seen her home.

He watched them from the shadows, feeling a blackness of spirit creeping over him at the sight of Louise laughing with the debonair comte. Despair, never far away, he pushed off from the wall, always more satisfied with the anger starting to percolate in his veins than the awful feeling of helplessness. He began to walk aimlessly, his planned evening of a late supper with her, blasted away by a man who was everything he was not. "You will leave me again. I know it now," he whispered, wanting to hit something- needing to release his growing sense of self-pity and rage before he choked on them. His strides became longer, his torturous thoughts forcing him to move faster, until he was nearly running into the darkness.

* * *

Morning papers delivered, coffee and tea steaming in the cups of rich and poor alike, the populace of the city once again sat down at their breakfast tables as they did every morning, and were apprised of another vicious killing the evening before. Louise, enjoying a rare morning sleep-in, remained innocent of the second murder for a little while longer.

* * *

**What's Er...oops, I mean ..._who_ is running amok in Gay Paree? They need the services of Sherlock Holmes or Monsieur Dupin who solved the murders in the rue Morgue so expeditiously. Maybe even Inspector Jacques Clouseau of Pink Panther fame. On second thought, no. they _want_ to get it solved, don't they?**


	18. Chapter 18

Her aunt glanced at her as she entered the kitchen. "How did the darling of Paris sleep last night?"

Louise smothered a yawn as she sat down at the round oak table and took the cup of coffee Maria poured for her. The kitchen was sun-washed and bright with scarlet geraniums on the window sills and her aunt's copper pans shining golden in the morning sun. Birds trilled in the large pear tree just outside the window, and after her first few sips of coffee she felt a little more awake.

"She slept like the dead, thank you very much," and nodded at the paper on the edge of the table. "Were we a success?"

Maria basted the eggs and put a thin slice of ham on Louise's plate, along with a triangle of buttered toast and turned to her niece. "They loved you and Giselle equally, and they look forward to more," she smiled, "but then you already knew that, didn't you?" and gestured to a small envelope near Louise's plate. "That came for you this morning. There is a boy waiting just outside for your answer."

She set her cup down and reached for the expensive white vellum envelope displaying the de Chagny crest, her curiosity aroused.

_La Sorelli,_

_ May I interest you in a late lunch today at Maxine's? I wish to renew an acquaintanceship which began ten years ago. Please say you will. Give your answer to the boy and he will see it delivered._

_ Yours, Philippe_

"Who is it from, child?" Maria slid an egg onto the plate with the ham and set it in front of Louise then replenished her coffee.

She looked up from the note. "It's from the Comte de Chagny. He has invited me to lunch this afternoon after rehearsal."

"Will you accept?"

She folded the note in half and rose to her feet. "Yes." She went to the desk in the corner of the dining room and penned out a quick reply, then went out to the hall where the boy waited for her answer. She smiled, seeing he had just finished his own breakfast. She took the plate from him and gave the boy a sou for his trouble.

"Don't tell me...he looked too thin," Louise said as she handed the dirty plate and cutlery to her aunt, then sat down to eat her own breakfast.

Maria scoffed at that. "If you mean as thin as Erik, no. No one is as much in need of good food as that one _and _a little spoiling. Which reminds me- invite him for dinner some night this week. He is a good conversationalist and speaks my native tongue like one born to it." She looked curiously at her niece. "I thought he was bringing you home last night?"

Louise's head snapped up at that. Too late, she remembered him and his promise to escort her home. The blood drained from her face, and her fork clattered from nerveless fingers. "Oh no!" she squeaked, slapping a hand over her mouth. "I forgot all about him!"

"You left Erik waiting? That is- "

"- a mountain of trouble for myself," she said woefully, and wondered if she should pack and escape from Paris while there was still time to do so. "I forgot. Blast!"

Her aunt looked at her in disapproval. "Louise. Really! It didn't call for that, surely. Just tell him the comte was kind enough to offer to take you home instead. What's wrong with that?"

Her hand still covered her mouth, and her once ravenous appetite was gone. She shoved her plate away in disgust. "Oh, you have no idea how much is _wrong_ with that! From Erik's standpoint- everything. He must be livid with me by now."

Maria came over to the table and sat down. She observed her niece's agitation and was disturbed by it. "I think you are over-reacting just a little, child. If he gets this upset over something minor, what will he do when something truly shattering occurs? Which leads to my next question- " She took Louise's hand. "Are you certain there's not anything more than simple friendship between you two."

"Well, of course there's nothing going on! It's simply that you don't know him as I do. He's overly sensitive to what he perceives as rejection, and he can become a little stiff and unyielding when he's displeased." _A little? _She stood up and began clearing the table, while her aunt watched in consternation. "That's why I'm going in early to the theatre and talk to him before afternoon rehearsal- smooth some ruffled male feathers."

Maria sighed. "Maybe it is _you _making much out of nothing. Simply apologize. You owe him that much, and I am sure he will understand. After all, he is a grown man."

Louise snorted. "Oh yes, he is that, but he's also... H-He's more than...he is..." She threw up her hands in defeat. "He's Erik! And that's all I need to say. If you knew him better, you would understand." Just before she left the room, her aunt stopped her.

"Did you see in the paper that there was another murder last night? Another, and this one even more vicious than the first! It is Madame Fontaine's girl, Sophie. You know, Louise- they run the greengrocer's in the rue Leclerc. Such a nice family and the poor girl was found strangled just two streets over." Maria's mouth was pinched in a hard line, her eyes grim. "She was violated before she was killed; just like the first. What kind of animal does such a thing?" She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, and said firmly, "You must take every precaution when you are alone."

Sorelli frowned. "Two streets over? Why, that's not so very far from the Garnier."

"Yes. That inspector from the Commissaire- I believe his name is Mifroid... he seems to think she was murdered elsewhere and left in the rue Auber by design. I don't know why he assumes that, but all the same, I would feel better if you took a cab to and from the theatre. At least once it gets dark. It's unsafe to walk these streets with this...this..._phantom_ out there murdering innocents."

She paused in the doorway, her head turning slowly at that word. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, it _is_ unsafe. Surely you- "

"No, not that. Why did you call him a phantom?" She felt a tremor of fear in the pit of her stomach, and as yet, wasn't sure why. It was simply there.

"That's what the L'Epoque is calling him. No one sees or hears anything, even though there is more of a police presence since the first murder. Tell me you will be careful, child."

"And you say she was strangled?"

"Yes. Just like the first commissary has promised they will solve this in no time, but how? Don't you think it will be difficult to be everywhere at once? Just tell me you will be more cautious." She glanced at her niece for confirmation, and saw the young woman staring unseeingly out the window. "Louise?"

She turned around, and focused on her aunt's face. "Yes, of course I will. I must go, darling. Anything you need me to bring home?"

"No. I'm going out myself. I'm taking some food to Batilde. Poor woman is prostrate with grief. Sophie was her only child." She regarded her niece with somber eyes. "Remember what I said. Cabs when it gets dark."

Louise nodded and went to get ready for morning rehearsal. And later- well, then she would face Erik's wrath.

* * *

She heard nothing as she stood outside Erik's front door. She had waited until Philippe's carriage left the front of the theatre, then hastened around to the rue Scribe and used the key he gave her. All the way down the dim passage, she practiced what she would say to her friend, for she knew without a doubt that she would have some explaining to do.

Lunch with Philippe had been pleasant, although she hadn't eaten very much. Between her late breakfast and the coming meeting with Erik, her appetite had fled. The comte was a different man than her friend; he was surprisingly easy to talk with and interesting besides. Not that Erik wasn't interesting, she thought loyally; he was a well-read man and their conversations were often lively, but he had a way of out-stripping her intellectually, leaving her to feel slightly foolish and gauche. She was an artiste, not a scholar, but it was a challenge just to hold up her end of a discussion. Oftentimes though, she found herself simply listening to the rise and fall of his rich tenor, as his interest sparked to their conversation. He would go on at great length as he warmed to the subject, blissfully ignorant of her fondness, not for the words so much, but in the way he spoke them. Invariably she wondered how a man's tone could be so very attractive when the rest of him was not.

Realizing she had lingered long enough outside his door, she squared her shoulders, opened the door, and entered the lion's den.

She called out to him, "Erik? It's Louise," and not getting any answer, sat down on the sofa, determined to wait a few minutes before leaving. She only wanted to get this over with, and lost patience with her timid heart. "Pish! He's not an ogre- although at times he pretends to be," she muttered to the room in general.

Not more than five minutes later, she jumped on hearing the front door open, and turned nervously to face him. With his usual silent gait, she watched with trepidation as he entered the parlor and stopped to survey her silently.

The quiet spun out until she began contemplating a quick get away, but at last a mournful sigh slipped from his mouth. "Well, Louise. You finally remembered your poor Erik." His hair was mussed as though he'd been running his fingers through it in frustration, and he wore a smudge of dirt on his chin. His coat had been thrown on hastily, and his vest only partially buttoned, his cravat untied and hanging limply around his neck. She had interrupted him- another strike against her.

She gave him a wan smile. "I'm sorry. I seem to have come for a visit at a bad time." She peeked up at him, noticing his rigid stance, and took a deep breath. "I w-want to apologize for not taking you up on your kind offer to escort me home last night. My only excuse was the headache I acquired shortly after we parted- " Her words were stilted and not altogether true; she had enjoyed herself with the comte, her friend completely slipping from her mind. She looked for some softening of that thin mouth; a spark of welcome from his watchful eyes, and was dismayed to see none.

Nevertheless, she tried again. "The comte offered to take me home and I agreed. If I hadn't been so exhausted from the performance-" her words trailed off, seeing this effort at appeasement for what it was- groveling.

"Say it, Louise. You found a much more attractive escort than I."

"I will not say it. The comte offered to take me home and I agreed. It had been a busy day and my head ached from the constant chatter at the reception," she said weakly.

"Simply tell me the truth without the whitewash, if you please," his eyes boring into hers.

She raised her chin and defiantly glared at him. "You're trying to make me feel fourteen again, aren't you? Very well. The truth then. I forgot about your offer and I'm sorry." She turned for the door. "I think maybe this was the wrong time for me to come see you. Obviously you were working."

"Sit, Louise."

She sat.

"I'll make us some tea, all right?"

His tone was neutral, and she looked at him hopefully. "You're not angry?"

"I didn't _say _that, did I?" but the right side of his mouth twitched into a faint smile and she relaxed a bit.

There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes now and her hope grew, but she said firmly, "_I_ will make the tea," she gestured to the dirt on his hands, her gaze then traveling down to his usually spotless shoes which were streaked with mud. "What have you been doing?"

"Taking inventory of my alarms," he said easily. "One was set off an hour ago and I was resetting it."

Her glance unthinkingly fell to his pale hands, then flew up to his masked face. "Set off? Y-You caught someone trespassing?"

He shook his head slowly, obviously pondering the same thing. "There was no one in it."

"What do you mean _in it _exactly?"

He shrugged. "Just that. It is a trip line placed inconspicuously in the corridor and when activated, sets off an alarm. There was no one in the lake."

"Why would someone be in the lake?"

"The Siren gets them when they try to cross."

"The...the _what?_"

"The Siren," he replied patiently.

She stared at him puzzled. "Yes, I heard you the first time. But what is it?"

"It is an apparatus I built in the lake. It is quite simple really. It runs beneath the water on pulleys and activates when an alarm goes off. If the boat is commandeered by anyone other than myself, it dumps them into the water. One can drown in that lake, you know- " He sputtered to a halt and dropped his eyes from hers.

She nodded. "I've never liked it. There's something awful about it." She looked at him hopefully. "You would never _let_ someone drown, would you, Erik?"

He dodged her question. "You must never come that way, Louise," and he hastened to say, "Did I ever tell you about the automatons I built? Very much like real people, they were- " His words trailed off, and he again looked uncomfortable, "That was a long time ago. No one was in the lake today, but you must promise me you will never go on the lake unless I am with you."

"I promise," she said solemnly, wondering at his insistence on this. "I only thank God no one has died in that greasy water."

He stared at her in annoyance. "What does God have to do with it? The trap is intended to serve a function, Sorelli and it failed to do so. Would you rather I had unwelcome visitors to my home?"

Her mouth set stubbornly in that all too familiar way. "Well, of course I wouldn't! But that doesn't mean I want someone going for a swim in that awful lake!"

Erik threw his hands in the air, always the dramatist. "Didn't I just explain to you that there was no one _in _it, you annoying little rat?"

As usual, Louise was left to diffuse the situation before her volatile friend's growing snit became full-blown. "Yes, you did. Forgive my impertinence and go wash, then we'll talk. All right?"

She had deftly removed the wind from his sails, and his growing ire deflated rapidly, leaving him looking at her with admiration instead. "The lady has spoken," he said softly, and went to do her bidding.

He returned quickly, and arms crossed over his chest, leaned against the counter as she steeped the tea. "I've missed this...more than I can say. We worked well together, did we not?"

She turned to him and smiled. "Most of the time," she agreed, her smile faltering a bit, remembering one instance in particular when his anger with her had led him to become a prisoner of the Communards. "Sometimes I managed to get on that last nerve of yours, but yes, I think we did." She stopped what she was doing and reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. "I missed it too." She cradled his hand, and his fingers curled around hers with a will of their own, his gaze riveted on their joined flesh. He sighed in contentment and she looked at him curiously. "You never really answered my question, Erik. Are you angry with me?" and gently disengaged their hands.

Mourning the loss of her touch, he turned to the green cabinet and took down cups and saucers. "I was, and now I am not," he said simply. "You are here with me and I wish to put last night from my mind." Which was a good thing, remembering his resultant rage as he watched her leave with de Chagny.

"_How_ angry?"

One of the things about her that had put him on the defensive in the past, was how very stubborn she would get, never content to leave a point of dissension alone between them. She would worry it like a mongrel would a juicy bone. So instead, he merely ignored her. "You really were magnificent last night, Louise. A consummate professional and an inspired dancer. They loved you, as did...as did I." He cleared his throat self-consciously, and went to the cupboard, taking out a small white baker's box tied with string. "I bought these fresh early this morning," deftly covering up his slight stumble. "I know how you like to feed that sweet tooth of yours."

"How did you know I would be visiting you today to eat them?"

He didn't look up as he arranged the pastries on a plate and shrugged. "I didn't, but even I am allowed to hope," and followed her back to the parlor.

Erik took the cup of tea she poured for him and sat down in his wing chair by the fireplace, Louise sitting on the sofa, eying the plate of pastries with a jaundiced eye. Starting with her aunt this morning, it seemed everyone was more than willing to stuff her with food. But nevertheless, she reached for a napkin and one of the pastries. She would eat it regardless of how it went down, which would be very reluctantly, but to make her friend happy, it was a small price to pay.

"Did I tell you that Paul has a secret benefactor? Someone left him a great deal of money in a-"

"- very large basket of fruit. No, you did not." He quirked an unseen eyebrow at her. "I made sure that the fruit was fresh." He sipped his tea and his mouth twitched in amusement at her surprise. "Was that what you had in mind, my dear?" His smile widened when her mouth remained indecorously open. That luscious mouth that looked so inviting.

"It was _you_?" inherent disbelief evident in her tone.

"Isn't that what I just said?" He leaned back in his chair, very satisfied with her reaction. "But don't think I was being beneficent for altruistic reasons, Louise. I really had no wish to provide monetary assistance. Not at all."

"Then why?"

"For you, silly girl. You assumed it was _my_ fault for his injury, therefore it was my obligation to rectify it." He sounded like a man sorely tried for sacrificing his principles, and she rolled her eyes at this. "I do not happen to agree with that, but I won't have you displeased with me. It solves nothing. Does it satisfy you?"

Her hackles rose at his refusal to accept blame, but with a mental shrug, she shook it off. She had no wish to anger him now that they were once more in accord. "Your reasoning is without merit, but the outcome is what counts, I suppose." She observed him silently for a moment. "Thank you, Erik."

His only reply to that was a shrug. "How does your aunt? That lovely lady with the talent for pasta?"

"She's fine, but tired emotionally."

"Oh? How so?"

"Giving comfort and support to an acquaintance."

"A very generous thing for her to do, I'm sure."

"Another woman was murdered last night. Two streets over from mine."

"Yes, so I heard," he said carefully, recalling how upset she had become at his callous acceptance of the first one.

"It was her friend's daughter that was killed."

"Ah."

"What kind of fiend goes around preying on defenseless women?"

"What kind?" he snorted. "A fiend is a fiend, Louise. There is no grouping them into any particular classification."

She looked at him in all innocence. "The papers are referring to him as le Fantome. His style of...of killing is strangulation."

He returned her gaze with a calm demeanor. "Sensationalism is all that is. Give him a name, and they hope to sell more papers that way."

"None of us are safe anymore. Tante Maria insists I take a cab after dark."

He nodded mildly. "Just so. I have been telling you that very thing. However," he sat up in his chair and regarded her silently for a moment, "you don't have to worry that anyone will accost you, even if you decide to walk from here to the Madeleine at midnight. You shall be safe."

She stared at him puzzled. "How can you be so sure?"

He shrugged. "You must trust me that you are, and leave it at that."

She stared at him a moment longer, wondering what he was leaving unsaid, but his eyes had taken on a shuttered look once again, and she knew the subject was closed.

She sighed, and his mouth twitched in amusement. "What have you been working on lately?" she managed to say after swallowing a bit of eclair filled with crème chiboust. "Don Juan?"

He steepled his fingers together and wondered if she would find it amiss if he took his napkin and gently wiped the creme filling from her upper lip. He stared at her mouth, and was soon lost in a private fantasy involving him removing it with his tongue, and was disappointed when she raised her napkin and did the deed herself.

She reached for her teacup, feeling self-conscious with his unblinking eyes riveted on her face, his mouth slightly open. "Erik? Are you even listening to me?"

He dragged his gaze from her lips and let out a breath he wasn't aware of holding, and ran a hand through his hair. "Of course I am listening to you!" and immediately looked guilty. "But for the sake of clarity...could you _repeat_ the question?"

She smiled sweetly at him. "I think you just answered it. I only wanted to know if you have been working on Don Juan?"

He snorted at that as his pale fingers nervously fiddled with his navy cravat. Becoming aware of what he was doing, he dropped his hands and looked at her. "To answer your question, no. I haven't worked on it in months."

"You'll never get it finished and performed at this rate."

"Perhaps that is not my intent."

"Why won't you play some of it for me?" she pouted. "You know, outside of that marvelous organ recital you terrorized us with, I've never heard you play. Why not let me hear some of Don Juan now?"

He merely shook his head and replied emphatically, "I believe I once explained to you that the music is not fit for your ears. It's dangerous to perform it, for it excites the nerves and awakens all of the senses." He saw her look of doubt. "Oh yes, Louise. It ensnares the senses and leaves the listener yearning for the unattainable, until the temperature rises and one is consumed with heat of a sensual kind. I have often spent hours on it only to find that it was actually _days _that I had labored over it- having lost myself in its promise of fulfillment. His eyes were watching her in that lazy, heavy lidded way he had, almost appearing to be half asleep, but she knew he was very much alert and aware.

She swallowed hard, her pulse rate quickening at his erotic words, painting her a seductive picture of carnality and unbridled passions. Gamely, she continued. "S-Something new then," and she took a much needed breath.

He inclined his head in agreement. "Yes, very soon I will play whatever you would like to hear. Mozart if you wish. Would you like that?"

She nodded silently, and stood up, approaching his chair. With fingers that shook a little, she bent down and straightened the folds of the cravat he had inadvertently wrinkled. He watched her, his eyes filled with hope and a desire which was suddenly alive and exposed.

"There! It's very handsome and you have managed to manhandle it!" Smiling, she looked into his eyes, and was taken aback at the emotion brimming in them. She stood indecisively, her heart hammering, unable to look away from the raw need she saw there. She wasn't even certain _why_ she had approached him. She took a step backward, still powerless to look away. She had taken another step, when Erik grabbed her hand, halting her progress. He stared up at Louise, his eyes naked and revealing, his grim mouth relaxed, and for him, strangely vulnerable.

"You won't be seeing him again, will you, Louise?" he said quietly, and turned her hand over, rubbing her fingers lightly with his thumb, causing her pulse to race as it slid up and lightly touched where the skin was fluttering madly in her wrist. His lids drooped low over his eyes as he waited for her answer, his fingers closing gently on her hand and pulling her ever closer. Trapped in that amber gaze, she was helpless to stop. His lips had parted as though waiting patiently in a welcome that had taken years, but would at last feel the touch of her mouth on his.

Curiously, she wanted it too. At that moment it was all she desired, but with four words, he brought her to her senses. "He's not your kind."

She gave a slight shake to her head and tugged at her hand, feeling a little breathless. She had briefly wondered what his kiss would be like- the taste of his mouth. Sometimes late at night, just on the cusp of sleep when thoughts lean more toward the abstract, an image would flit into her mind picturing his thin mouth on hers, coaxing a response that left her yearning for more. Never certain why the vision kept recurring, she nonetheless would force it from her mind, uncomfortable with its meaning, quite sure it shouldn't be there at all.

Disappointed, he let her go and she straightened up, her cheeks red from what almost happened. Silly! This was Erik- her friend, nothing more than that. That's all he would ever be to her. A dear friend. Dazed, she returned stiffly to the sofa, picked up her napkin, and spread it across her lavender striped skirt. Once again, she took sanctuary in her indignation, even as her hand shook raising the cup to her lips. She managed to put it down without spilling anything, and worked hard to calm herself. She took a deep breath. "I assume you're talking about the Comte de Chagny. Please explain to me what _my _kind is exactly. I seem to recall your telling me the same thing about his brother not so very long ago."

He had caught the trembling in her hand and wondered at it. Fear-or something else? "Would you be happy with that lifestyle then? Being kept as a brood mare, and producing a child every one and a half years until you are old before your time? Put on display and trotted out as the ideal wife for a noble? I didn't realize formal and stifled was what you aspired to."

She snorted. "I didn't either. I thought I was asked to luncheon with a nice gentleman who was simply feeding me, not asking me to bear the next line of de Chagnys!"

"Hush. I didn't mean to get your back up. Calm yourself, and tell me you'll meet me after the performance tonight. You do owe me, you know," he said lightly, conveniently forgetting the rage and despair he had felt only hours ago, for she was here now, and everything was as it should be.

She started to sputter, then saw the amused glitter of his eyes. "You're a devil," she said ruefully. "All right. To show you my good will- I accept. Where are we going?"

"A late dinner. You should be hungry by then."

"Why don't I just meet you here?"

"Because we're not eating here."

"Where?"

"I intend to show you- tonight."

She laughed as she took the tea tray to the kitchen. "All right, all right. Go on and be as secretive as you please! I have to get upstairs for rehearsal, but I have time to clean up."

"No, you do not. If you are late by even five minutes, Baucher will send out a search party, and I'd rather not have that many guests at one time."

She scooped up her gloves on the way out, but paused when her eyes fell on a florid, purple lady's hat complete with silk flowers, ribbons, and snowy egret plumes poking out of the large crown. Curiously, she hadn't noticed it when she first arrived, no doubt because of her fear of Erik's temper. It was an ugly thing, the color garish and loud. She picked it up and studied it. "Have you had company down here? She forgot her hat." She was only teasing, but it was an odd thing for him to have in his possession.

He joined her at the hall table. "I found it in one of the tunnels. One finds all sorts of things in the cellars. I expect I'll give it to Mother Giry. It's just the kind of thing she would wear."

Louise laughed, and on impulse, rose to her toes and kissed his masked cheek. "I will see _you _later," and left feeling she had been let off easy.

She was out the door before he could react, but his hand immediately rose to the cheek she had kissed- and remained there.

* * *

She had just thrown Estelle and Jammes out of her room, when a few minutes later, there was a light tap on the door. With a muffled oath, she got up from her vanity and impatiently yanked the door open. Top hat in hand, Philippe de Chagny stood there looking coolly handsome. Louise felt awkward, realizing that in just a few minutes she was to meet Erik for their late supper. She had no wish to anger him yet again, and with the same man.

"Philippe, hello."

He bowed to her and put a gloved hand on the door frame, his smile lighting up his face. "I hope that look isn't intended for me. Could I interest you in some supper, Louise? I know it seems I'm monopolizing your time today, but I would be honored if you would join me."

She pulled her wrapper tighter, and couldn't stop a furtive glance into the dim hallway. "No, of course it wasn't you. I thought it was the petite rats come back to pester me, and I'm running short of time as it is."

"Then I'm sorry for disturbing you," he said stiffly. "Another time, perhaps?"

"Of course. I'm only sorry I have to decline your invitation," she replied, smiling and darting another quick glance around.

"I won't keep you any longer then. Good night."

"Good night, Philippe." She closed the door gently, feeling relief that she had escaped detection, and hurriedly finished dressing. Running full tilt to check her hair in the vanity mirror, she nearly missed Erik sitting on the sofa, one arm slung casually across the back of it, and slouched casually with long legs stretched out in front of him- just as though he'd been there for hours. He was in black tail coat and white tie, looking at her innocently as he climbed to his feet.

"Well, Louise. You are mighty popular anymore. Should we install a swinging door to expedite things a little faster?" He brushed at imaginary lint on his trousers with one white gloved hand. "Only think, if you would have taken the end dressing room as I wanted, the comte could have had Carlotta's company for the evening."

"I'm ready to leave." She picked up her shawl and planted herself in front of him.

""Don't wish to answer the question then?" he drawled.

"No, I do not, Erik. It's a silly question. Ph...the comte was merely being polite by asking the principal dancer to dinner. And that is all," she said with finality.

He held the door for her as she preceded him into the hallway. "Oh, I think not, Sorelli. I'm sure he is nearly always polite, but that isn't what he was feeling just now. He wanted your company for reasons other than what is good for this theatre. False modesty doesn't become you."

"It is _not _false modesty! Everyone has an ulterior motive according to you- even me."

They walked together through the opera house, Louise still complaining to him, when with a roll of his eyes, he made straight for Box Five and ushered her inside. He closed the door behind them, and she was startled to see a large picnic basket sitting near the plush red chairs, a bucket with a bottle of champagne on ice, and a bouquet of red roses.

He stood there watching her reaction closely, and was inordinately pleased when she smiled and buried her nose in the flowers. "Why, Erik! This is wonderful! A picnic in the theatre. What a lovely idea!" She was very pleased with his surprise, but looked at him curiously. "How often do you come up here?"

He preened beneath her praise, and hoped this put him ahead of de Chagny. "Often enough, I suppose. I watch the performances from this box. I also come here sometimes to think. Madame Giry supplied a footstool for your use this evening, and I surrendered the hat to her. She adores the thing."

She nodded. "Estelle likes to come here as well. She said the opera ghost growled at her once, and he sounded suspiciously like you."

He rubbed a finger across his upper lip thinking. "The blonde haired chit with a penchant for drinking alone? Yes, I do recall finding her here once with her feet up, hair down, and half a bottle of Merlot gone."

Louise snorted. "Yes, that would be Estelle." She cut her eyes up at him and a smile played upon her lips. I seem to remember some gentleman, and I'm not naming names, you understand, telling me he preferred blonde haired ladies."

He bent down and whispered in her ear, "That was then. As it so happens, I lean more toward dark brown locks with a hint of fire in them."

She shivered at the feel of his breath moving tendrils of loose hair at her temple. Her laugh was slightly breathless. "You would have made a good diplomat, Erik."

"Mm," he replied noncommittally. "Has your appetite returned? If it has, there's ham, prawns, and a salad." He rummaged in the basket, and held up a small plate wrapped in a white napkin. Apple tart for your dessert, if you make some ham and salad disappear first."

Her eyes filled with tears, as she eyed the tart he had remembered to be her favorite. For ten years their lives had diverged, neither knowing what the other was doing. She knew one fact- he'd been alone for far too long. "You really are the dearest man," she whispered, ashamed once again for her foolish suspicions.

Erik felt a surge of triumph that he had indeed trumped the comte.


	19. Chapter 19

The following week started on a positive note, but by Friday it had become a nightmare. It all began when M. Poligny asked her to stop by the manager's office. Rehearsals had just commenced on La Sylphide after the success of Giselle, and Louise was going to be late. She cursed the need to bow and scrape to the two men as though she had nothing better to do, and wished _she _could send them threatening letters in red ink. She rapped on the door, tapping the toe of one shoe impatiently on the marble floor until Debienne opened it.

"Ah, La Sorelli! Come in, dear lady. Please." Louise was surprised to find the Comte de Chagny standing up and looking gravely at her. "You know the comte, don't you? Ah, very good, very good. Please... have a seat."

She glanced from Debienne to Philippe in consternation. "I hope this doesn't take long. I have a rehearsal to attend, and Monsieur Baucher is not always the most understanding of men."

Arthur Debienne waved a languid hand. "Of course not, mam'selle. This will take but a moment of your time. I must tell you that I-"

"Allow me to explain this to the lady, if you please." Philippe interjected smoothly.

"Very good, comte. Explain away," and he waved a hand again and sat down behind his desk.

"_Alone,_" the comte said firmly. One brief, hard stare at Debienne, and the manager got to his feet, bowed his head in false obeisance toward Sorelli and left the room.

She turned her gaze on Philippe and waited with ill-concealed impatience. He smiled at her, and once again she was struck by his considerable good looks. "You were asked here because of your popularity with much of Paris."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Allow me to explain then. You've heard of Abigail Beaulard, have you not?"

"Yes, of course. Her husband Lucien is one of the principal architects of the railroad system between Paris and much of France. They are well known for their support of the arts, the theatre in particular."

"That's right. They would like you to grace their dinner party this evening. I know it's short notice, and for that I apologize, but if you accept, I will be accompanying you. Abigail especially, is intent on meeting the young woman with the exceptional grace and extraordinary talent. Her words, not mine, although I concur."

"A good friend of yours, comte?"

"Not particularly," was all he said.

Louise carefully searched his face. "You hardly need to go through the managers to coerce me into going with you, you know."

He sat down beside her and smiled warmly. "No, I didn't," he agreed. "They approached me yesterday with their problem. They wanted you to represent the Garnier, and thought you might be interested if I were the one doing the asking. Were they correct?" His eyes continued their frank appraisal, and she felt the telltale heat spreading on her cheeks.

"They were."

"I'm glad to hear it. Louise, there is no pressure on you to agree to this, you understand. It's your own decision. The managers can't force you to accept, and my part in this only extends to one person." His eyes were warm on her and she could feel her composure cracking a little more. "I merely wish to spend an evening in your company, and I may have used this as my excuse to accomplish it."

"Then you, sir are unscrupulous," her eyes never wavered from his, and with relief, he detected the twinkle in them, "but I accept," she said simply. She stood up then and Philippe rose with her. "Now if you will excuse me, I have a rehearsal to attend."

Philippe walked Sorelli to the door and held it open for her. "My carriage will collect you at seven o'clock. Is that agreeable?" She nodded as he raised her hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips. "Until this evening then."

* * *

"Sit still, Louise, or you will be going out that door with only half of your hair pinned up."

She observed herself critically in the mirror as Maria piled her chestnut curls atop her head. She thought the pink silk dress with an underskirt of striped silk looked very elegant for the dinner party. The basque bodice was low cut and trimmed in white lace with a tiny bouquet pinned over the left breast. Maria was just now putting matching pink flowers in her upswept hair. At least Philippe wouldn't have to worry that she would look out of place in the wealthy gathering.

"I haven't had much time to speak with you since I got home. What did you do today?"

"I went to visit Batilde this morning. Poor woman doesn't know what to do with herself since the murder. She's grieving for Sophie and not sleeping very well. I tried to get her out of the house today for a little shopping, but we didn't make it very far before she wanted to return home. We went into the milliner's- "

Louise started to drift away from her aunt's voice, her thoughts wandering to Erik. It was nearly a week since she'd last seen him, after he accepted a dinner invitation to their home one evening. Earlier in the month he gave Louise some salve for a mild burn her aunt had received; intrigued, Maria had questioned him extensively over dinner about his work with herbal medicines, and he had complied with enthusiasm. He explained to her that he was often gone, gathering the materials he needed to make his different salves and tinctures; sometimes from the apothecaries in Paris, or on a late night scouting expedition into the Bois de Bologne for some of the plants he sought. Sorellii knew how he loved to putter in his little workroom, sometimes for hours, making anything from headache powders to syrups for coughs and teas for fever. Maria was interested in some of the curatives he worked on, and they spoke together at great length over her chicken cacciatore that night. Louise had mostly kept quiet, getting enjoyment from watching Erik's obvious pleasure at these rare times of inclusion into the world of normalcy.

If not in his workroom, then perhaps he would be laboring over Don Juan, even though he claimed his interest in it waxed and waned. One never knew with him. Sometimes he got so caught up in what he was doing, he would forget about everything else for a time, which in her opinion was probably a good thing.

"...and she was adamant that Sophie was wearing the purple hat, but the gendarmes couldn't find it anywhere near the...near the girl."

Something her aunt said, filtered into Louise's musings and she jerked her head around, causing the older woman to sigh in frustration. "Really, child! I am nearly finished, so stay still!"

Her eyes met Maria's in the vanity mirror. "Did you say a _purple _hat?"

"Yes. Batilde saw a green one in the milliner's window and told me it looked similar to Sophie's new hat, only hers was purple. It was a rather ugly hat in my opinion."

"With lots of ribbons and two egret feathers?"

"Why yes, set in the crown and resembling nothing more than a large bird sitting on its nest. _You _have seen this hat?"

"What happened to it?" she asked casually, her heart beginning to pound.

"No one knows. The gendarmes think someone may have stolen it at some point. Batilde even checked at the theatre to see if Sophie may have left it there."

Louise swallowed hard, afraid of the answer. "The...the theatre? She was at the Garnier?"

"She was supposed to apply for a position in the costume department, but she never arrived. No one remembers her. You didn't hear any talk of the girl being there at any time?"

The monstrous suspicion had become a tiny nugget and seemed intent on growing larger. She had seen a florid purple hat like the one Maria described in Erik's home. He claimed he found it in the third cellar, and she supposed the murdered woman could have gone exploring on her own and lost the hat unknowingly. _Or been chased and caught?_

"Louise!"

She jumped, startled out of her ugly musings- her absolutely ridiculous musings. She put them aside refusing to linger on something so asinine. "There was some talk about a pair of gendarmes backstage, but they were only there ten minutes or so. I was busy and never thought to find out more. No one mentioned it, and I'm sure Taillier or Giry would have said something by now. They live for gossip, those two."

Maria finally stood back and studied her handiwork. "You look lovely, cara. Count Philippe will be enchanted!"

Louise was ready by the appointed time, and as Philippe handed her into the carriage, he complimented her. "You will be the loveliest by far tonight, and I don't even have to see anyone else to know it is true," his admiring eyes sweeping her from head to toe.

She looked humorously at him. "I had better be, don't you agree? I am, after all, representing an entire opera house, and if I don't shine at it, Arthur Debienne will hold my feet to the flames!"

His laugh was a pleasant baritone and she liked the sound of it. "Wait until you see Madame Beaulard's mother. She is a veritable fire-breathing dragon and thinks nothing of scorching anyone within her radius with that tongue of hers. I myself have felt the heat of it from time to time," and Louise laughed.

"I might be in need of a brave knight then."

Philippe bowed his head to her. "Then permit _me_ the honor of slaying her for you, my lady!"

Their light banter kept them well occupied until they reached their destination, and except for a few butterflies in her stomach, she settled in to enjoy her evening.

* * *

He watched as they all congregated around the slightly built girl and began to taunt her. One tall ballet rat was the most vocal. "What's wrong, Merillo? Not as brave as you were this morning, are you? Go on then. See if you can call up the ghost," and she gave the girl a rough shove.

"I was only having a bit of fun, Marthe, and you know it!" She backed away from the wide open door which led to the dank and creepy cellars, suddenly frightened by the thought of what could be down there waiting in the dark. "You are just being mean!" Edith's eyes filled with tears, and she looked to the other rats for help. Not finding any among the stony faces, she tried to turn and leave, but one of the girls grabbed her arm, and Marthe gave her a push through the doorway.

"Time to back up your words, Ed. Say hello to Monsieur Opera Ghost for us, won't you? He eats little bits of blood and bone like you every day. I heard there is a room down there in the fifth cellar that's piled high with nothing but spindly little skeletons," and laughed with the others as they slammed the door closed on the girl and put their combined weight against it.

Edith whimpered in fear, and started pounding on the door in panic. "Let me in, I beg you. Marthe! Adele! A-Anyone? I need the w-water closet," and sobbing in fright, she squeezed her legs together and huddled closer to the door, her hands smarting from all the banging. "Please let me in. _Please_-" Her words faded away as she fearfully looked over her shoulder at the gloom behind her.

He smiled widely in the dark, and if Edith could have seen the wolfish grin revealing gleaming incisors and the ruined horror sitting just above it, she would have fainted dead away from the grotesque sight. The notion of chasing the little bird through a passage or two, was becoming more delightful by the minute. And when he allowed himself to catch her? Better yet. He need only wait a few minutes, and eventually she would climb to her feet and look for another way out. They always tried to run from him. He shifted quietly in his dark corner, his anticipation growing in leaps and bounds. "Come little bird. Come out, come out and play," he breathed.

Edith scratched at the door, but knew she was going to have to find her own way out. On wobbly legs she stood up and looked around. The feeble glow of light was a little brighter to her left, and hesitantly she took a step in that direction, thinking she would end up further backstage and come out somewhere near the kitchens. Another step and she paused, listening closely for any sound. The stairs that led to the cellars were close by, and she wanted nothing more than to get further away from them. Her entire body was shaking right down to her teeth, which were chattering from the cold and her own fright, her ears hearing nothing but a pregnant silence which seemed to stretch and expand, while it waited for the arrival of something wicked- something nasty. She took another step, then another, wishing she was surrounded by the noise and confusion of their dressing room. Safe. She would never feel contempt for its plain plaster walls or bare floors ever again.

"I just have to keep calm, that's all," the sound of her own voice, timid and small, but it was better than the crouching stillness which threatened to leap into violent activity at any moment. "The door near the kitchens is close by. I know it, and when I get out of here, I won't s-speak to any of them ever again, especially that...that _pig_, Marthe." The light was growing, and eagerly she walked faster, stumbling only a little when she came across some props from one of the operas, their bulky shapes weird and fantastic in the dimness. She put a trembling hand out to the wall, feeling the roughness of the block, and trailed her finger along it as her eyes tried to make out the flickering light sitting on the floor. "A lantern? But who would- ?"

She let out a scream when she heard the rustle of fabric from the inky shadows, and swore it was accompanied by a soft chuckle. "Who's...th...th...there?" No one answered, and panic stricken, she stopped thinking and mindlessly broke into a run, looking desperately for a door she could put between her and whatever was following. The young girl's breath was coming in sobbing pants, her terror ratcheted up to hysterical levels as the scrape of shoe leather on concrete reached her ears. She ran blindly, wanting only to get away from the thing chasing her. It existed, her mind screeched at her. Mon Dieu, the ghost existed, and it was coming for her.

She turned a corner and bounced off the wall, pain blooming in her shoulder, and screamed again as it came closer, the sound of it creating abject terror in the girl's panicked mind. The passage ahead branched off into two different directions, and without thought, she took the one to the left, still looking for that hard to find door, and sobbed in relief when she spied the faint outline of glorious light shining pale gold along the floor, growing brighter as she got closer. She lunged madly for the handle, and prayed that it was unlocked. As Edith fell through the door and into the hallway near the kitchens, she put some distance between her and the thing so close behind. Crying now, she swore the very next time she saw Marthe, she would blacken both of the wench's eyes, for aside from her extreme fright, she had just wet herself.

He had thoroughly enjoyed the chase; ruffling the little bird's feathers until she won her freedom and flew away to leave him and his cellars behind. He chuckled with glee as he decided to end it. It really would not do to have gendarmes swarming his opera house. She was a skinny little thing, but fleet of foot. He had no problem with that. All rats were built in much the same way. He didn't mind at all, for the next time would be all the sweeter.

And there would be a next time.

* * *

Louise knew something was wrong when she entered the opera house the next morning. There were more people than usual milling about, and she spied Poligny backstage as she went to her dressing room. She changed into gauze skirt and pointe shoes, and threw a shawl around her shoulders.

There was a tap on the door and she wondered briefly if Philippe was coming to commiserate with her again after her dinner with the upper-crust of French society. The evening had begun well enough with an introduction to the wealthy of Paris and their gushing admiration of her dancing. But as the night progressed, it was less about her talents on the stage, and more about what she could bring to a relationship with the comte. The sly ladies of the beau monde loved nothing better than to gossip over their aperitifs about who was bedding who. She was pegged as Philippe's new mistress by every elaborately dressed and wasp tongued woman in the room. Especially the beautiful Abigail Beaulard, who Sorelli was quite sure had once been exactly that to the comte- and wouldn't have minded a continuation of that connection.

Aside from their need to know everything concerning her private life, they made the unsuccessful attempt to make her feel inferior by their condescension which could be quite daunting.

She was quiet on the drive home, and he gently pressed for the reason. She said nothing for a moment, looking out the window and deciding what she wished to say. "They invited me to this dinner as a way of...well, to put it bluntly- 'put the dancer in her place'. They might admire my skill in a pas de deux or enchant them with a well executed fouette en tournant, but the women of your world, comte, see me as far beneath them. That includes your former... _attachment_, Abigail Beaulard."

He gazed back at her steadily, surprised by her directness. "That has been over for years, Sorelli. It need not concern you."

"It doesn't," she said lightly.

"Oh? Not even a little?" he said with the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"Not even a little," she replied, an answering smile threatening to break out.

"You never have to worry about them, Louise, and you won't ever see any of them again, except as members of the audience. I must, for I often conduct business with most of the gentlemen in that room. Those very same gentlemen who found much to admire in the lovely lady on my arm tonight." He reached for her hand and wasn't rebuffed. "I apologize for their boorish behavior. I can only hope you were not too discomposed, but if you were, I intend to make it up to you. If I may?"

"You may, but I must tell you that I don't consider your particular society to be a personal bellwether for me. They only try to raise their own consequence by lowering everyone else's."

He studied her in the dim light of the carriage, and she returned his gaze calmly. "I would have to say just by looking at you, that it didn't work."

"Not at all," she said bravely, if not completely truthful.

He did much to restore her good humor, although she hadn't been all that uncomfortable during her evening. She was a dancer and well able to take the slings and arrows of others without collapsing in a quivering heap. Ballet masters did a very good job of flaying the ego, and in this business one had to grow a much thicker skin in order to survive it and flourish. But she admitted to herself that she was comfortable in Philippe's company- they got on rather well together. Unbidden, Erik entered her mind, and stubbornly she pushed him back out. No. The two men weren't at all similar, except for their intelligence; her friend could often anger her with just a look from those expressive yellow eyes. They fought at the drop of someone's hat, and would end up circling each other warily, much like a cat and dog. Erik could be insufferable, and with him sparks would usually fly, whereas Philippe's conduct was much easier and less prickly- soothing.

A tap at the door again, but this time it was more forceful, and she opened it to find Estelle peeking around the corner. "May I?" At Louise's nod, she scampered through the door and shut it quickly behind her. "Whew! Get ready! They'll all be filing in here in a minute. Practice has been canceled today, by the way. You'll never guess what has happened. Edith Merillo was attacked!" She threw herself on the sofa and looked at Louise, her eyes shining with a mixture of excitement and fear. She opened her mouth to say more, when there was a scratching at the door, and upon opening it again, four more rats spilled into the room.

Everyone began talking at once, and Louise clapped her hands to get their attention. "One at a time! You're not making any sense," she said irritably." She turned to Estelle, who was in the process of pushing Jammes out of her way. "You were saying?"

"Some of the older girls got tired of Edith talking about the opera ghost as though she was on speaking terms with him. You know Edith, Sorelli...she was fascinated by the subject, and began making up stories about him, just as if they were the best of friends." Estelle laughed shortly. "_Friends _with the ghost- how very silly! Don't you think so, Louise?"

"Yes, very silly. May I find out today, Estelle, _before_ you run out of breath?"

"I was only giving you some background to what happened; you needn't bite my head off!" Another quelling look from Louise, and Estelle got to the point, "Marthe and her little clique decided to send Ed on a visit with le Fantome, and locked her out of the theatre. They changed their minds though, thinking they would get in too much trouble with Baucher if Edith didn't show up at practice, but she got out on her own." She started to laugh, then sobered on seeing Louise's glare. "She went right after Marthe too, that little cat, and started ripping at her hair. Funniest thing I ever saw!"

Sorelli decided Marthe was going to pay dearly for this little stunt. "I see nothing amusing here, Taillier. Is she all right?"

Meg Giry sidled closer to Louise. "Yes. Although she bruised her shoulder when she was running away and," she coughed, glancing furtively at the other girls and lowered her voice, "she had a slight accident with um...she lost control of her..." a sharp nod from Louise, and Giry continued, "she is home for the rest of the day. Her mother insisted on it. The gendarmes are talking to her and the others now, but she was _chased _by someone in the hallway near the stairs to the cellars! I don't care what anyone else thinks- it was the ghost!" her tone a little belligerent. "Are you going home now, Louise?"

Sorelli looked into Giry's black button eyes, then at the young dancers piled on her sofa, ranging from eighteen down to twelve years of age. So young, and for the most part so innocent. She hated thinking about what could have happened to Edith, and terrified of what may have been about to take place in the dark passages. She had no way of focusing her fear, and every time a picture began to form in her mind, it skittered nervously away from what was evolving. This was Erik's domain. Wouldn't he know if someone strange was in his opera house? Or perhaps it was a known variety- one of the stage crew. She needed to see him- and soon.

She shook her head. "No, Meg. I'm staying here. I have to talk to someone."

* * *

An hour later found her standing in front of the little house on the lake, staring in apprehension at the door. Her hand had crept up to her mouth and she began chewing on her thumbnail, just as she had done ten years ago when faced with something difficult. The cellars were looking more ominous than usual to her overactive mind, and she felt poor Edith's terror for what had been hidden in the shadows.

Taking a deep breath, she touched the hidden press, and the door soundlessly opened. Crossing the threshold, she stood indecisively in the middle of the parlor floor, the rich chords of the organ in Erik's bedchamber becoming louder, now that she was inside. The melody moved with fluidity against her eardrums, pressing itself into her very skin, and she took another step into the room. She listened, intrigued by the complex rhythm. "Oh, that's lovely!" She swayed to the beat, likening it to an adagio and wondering if he wrote it. "Too light and happy for Don Juan. Something new?" It was no sooner spoken, she was scolding herself for what she had always found strange in her friend. He often talked to himself, a habit she found oddly endearing, but one she would ruthlessly quash in herself. In a way it made more sense coming from him.

She unpinned her hat and removed her gloves, tossing them on the foyer table; humming along with the adagio, she walked to the kitchen, and put water on for tea. She was just pouring it into the teapot, when she heard a whisper of sound and looked up to see him, hands braced on the door frame staring down at her, his welcoming eyes a soft gold.

"This _is _a pleasant surprise. La Sorelli come to visit her poor Erik." The sound of his mellifluous voice washed over her, causing a shiver to run up her spine.

She studiously ignored it and snorted as she placed cups and saucers on the tray. "Not a visit so much as needing a quick cup of tea," she replied mildly, rummaging in the cupboard for the biscuits he always kept there for her. She spied the crock on the top shelf, a little higher than she could reach even standing on her tiptoes. He watched her in amusement, then was behind her and getting them down. She could feel the fabric of his coat rubbing lightly against her shoulder blades, his breath fanning the hairs on the top of her head. She chuckled and turned around, looking up at him in admonishment. "Keeping them out of reach of any little rodent that comes calling, friend?"

His eyes held a warm glow that had hers dropping instantly. "You might say that. Keeping them out of the hands of a certain ballet rat with a predilection for anything sweet," he teased. "Simply helping her fight off temptation." He regarded Louise with an intent look. "So _I_ am merely a brief respite in your very busy day?"

"Of course you are!" she said smiling, not even aware of the lightening of her mood in his presence.

He chuckled when she took the box, their fingers brushing, and Louise pushed away from him, fussing with the biscuits he handed to her. "I really don't crave sweets the same way I used to, Erik. Only a child does, and I'm no longer one of those," she informed him crisply. "And I'm not a rat for your information! I am the premier dancer of the Garnier, so show a little respect, if you please," but the words were tempered by the dimple that appeared in her cheek.

"Oh, I'm well aware of that. But less of a preference for sweets?" He shook his head. "Anything made of chocolate, and you're more than likely to consume it," he said dryly, picking up the tray and leaving her to follow. Seating themselves in the parlor, she poured tea into the delicate cups, adding a slice of lemon to his and handed it over. He stretched out his long legs, crossing them leisurely at the ankles, and watched her as she fixed her tea and took a sip. "This is nice," he said quietly.

She looked up at him and smiled. "It's always nicer to have things prepared for one, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose so. I meant... having you here again just as we used to do."

His voice held a wistful note and it surprised her. "Surely you're not missing those bleak days of the Commune?"

"Not at all. I much prefer seeing you well fed and wearing pretty dresses." He stopped and his lip twitched. "Well, better fed than you were; you're still only a wisp of a girl, Louise- just taller."

"That music I heard- it's beautiful. Is it something of yours?" At his nod, "What is it called?"

"Danse des Ames."

"Dance of the Souls. It's lovely, Erik."

"It is for you, Louise."

This admission surprised her. "For me? Why?"

He shrugged. "Why not? When it is finished, I shall play it for you. Perhaps you will dance?"

Her eyes were soft on him- her inscrutable, talented friend. "I look forward to it. Thank you."

They sat in silence for a time, Erik's gaze resting on her face as it so often did- she was well used to it by now. She reached for a chocolate biscuit and set it back down, suddenly anxious. "Did you know that one of the corps de ballet was nearly attacked this morning? They canceled rehearsal because of it." She watched him carefully for- _what_?

"No, I did not."

Louise waited for him to say something more, but he remained silent, instead observing her with gimlet eyes which missed nothing, and to her heightened senses- guardedly.

"It was Edith Merillo. She was followed by someone near the first cellar stairs. Do you recall Edith at all?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "No idea."

"She only just managed to get away, Erik. It was a very close thing and they searched for someone lurking about. Wouldn't your alarms have been set off ?"

He shook his head. "As I once explained to you, only if it was lower than the third cellar. Usually no one _wants_ to come down here, Louise." He shifted in his seat. "Did she notice anything about her would-be attacker?"

"No. At least that's what Estelle told me."

"Perhaps she caught the eye of one of the gentry in the foyer de la danse and he followed her to get a little closer. Perhaps she even encouraged someone to get closer."

She heard the cynicism in his tone and set her cup down with a clatter, spilling some tea in her haste. "She is a young girl intent on dancing, not finding a lover! Her family has next to nothing, and their hopes of a better life rest on Edith's shoulders- thin though they may be." She took a deep breath to calm herself. "My God, Erik! She could have wound up- "

"Dead?" he supplied mildly. "No, I doubt that, Sorelli. Ladies of the stage very often find themselves with an audience keenly observing their readily apparent charms. All those male subscribers queuing up to watch them as they prance around in their skirts, showing pretty ankles and shapely calves. The gentlemen make their choices as though picking out livestock. I'm sure you have seen that particular gleam in a male's eyes, Louise." She watched him mouth these words, his tone soft and beguiling, but the picture he painted was one of ugliness and debauchery. "Was the evening out with the comte to your liking?" he asked her, voice filled with a pointed innuendo, and to her over-wrought nerves something far sinister. "Such an attractive face he has, don't you agree? No doubt very easy on the eyes, unlike some who are quite-"

"How dare you!" she cried, as her growing hurt caused her to forget where she was sitting. With _whom_ she was sitting... "Is this where your sudden animosity is directed? What gives you the right to spy on me? Better yet, what gives you the right to feel the need to control my every move? For your information, I was asked to attend a dinner to represent the Garnier. I would have thought with your _all-seeing_ eye, you would have known that! I repeat. How. Dare. You?"

He sat up straight from his elegant sprawl and leaned forward. "How dare I? You are not nearly as sophisticated as you like to think, _child__\- _"

"Oh! You men are all alike! Cast from the same mold. To think that girl would be ready to run off and become someone's mistress is the height of absurdity. She is only twelve!" Sorelli was livid with anger and caught the answering gleam in his eyes, but ignored it.

"I stand corrected. Forgive my presumption- a much _older _rat then. But to clarify- I am hardly in the same mold as other men, Louise. You of all people should realize that particular truth."

She folded her arms across her chest and looked at him, still seething with indignation. "The packaging might be different from the rest of your brethren, but the gentleman inside is all too familiar to the ladies, Erik, although you merely deny it. You enjoy a curvaceous female with a pretty turn of the ankle. Do not attempt to tell me differently!"

"I do deny it! I _enjoy _one such lovely lady as you are well aware, you little suffragette!" he sneered, not sounding at all to be in a state of that particular emotion.

She watched him warily as his anger came into play, the words for the most part escaping her, but if he were a dog, his ears would have flattened in warning. She felt safer in her righteous anger; accusing him of a controlling personality was much safer than thinking him a... Her mind stubbornly shoved the thought away, cowardly in its very denial. It can't be, she wailed. This man of whom she was so fond, could not be the one who... Again, she deftly skirted the sly voices whispering of madness and murder, focusing once again on what he was saying- and her anger grew.

"...member of the ancien regime, and must marry from one of the noble families. He runs in different circles than you do, Louise, and I'm quite certain you discovered that for yourself last night. Did they look down their decidedly patrician noses at the dancer in their midst? Hmm? He is a lecher of the first degree, and would only choose to sully your reputation, not offer you matrimony. I must insist you stop seeing him. For your own good, of course."

Her eyes were sparkling dangerously as she set her teacup down and stared hard at him. "Oh, of course! For my own good," she said nastily. "Who said anything about marriage? _I_ certainly did not. You are getting too far ahead of yourself, my friend, as I have told_ you_ before! Philippe is a kind and decent man, and there is nothing at all between us except for a love of ballet and the theatre." She rose to her feet as gracefully as possible, and threw her napkin on the tray. "What is _wrong _with you, Erik? I expected petulance from you, not this...this...silly ultimatum!" She marched to the hall table and scooped up her hat and gloves with shaking fingers.

He was out of his chair and reaching her in three strides, his anger and jealousy being replaced with anxiety. "Where are you going?" He swept a hand out to the tea things, knowing once again he had undermined his own cause in her eyes. _Why not just shove her into the comte's arms, you great jackass?_ "Sit and drink your tea and we will discuss this. I meant no harm."

She ignored him and walked rapidly to the door, Erik trailing her forlornly, as she struggled in her rage to find the little press. "No harm? Telling me who I can and can not see is no harm to you? When will you discover I'm no longer fourteen years old, and can now make my own decisions? It's none of your business whom I see. I certainly don't manage _your _life!"

"You misunderstand me! I did not mean to tell you what to do." _Oh yes I did. "_Or that he is better than you. On the contrary, Louise. You're worth a dozen of him! I simply don't want to see you hurt." He put both hands out in entreaty, trying to force the words past his wooden block of a tongue. "Louise, I-I-" He couldn't say it. He was too much of a coward to stand here and watch her face go from outrage, to loathing and deep disgust; he once more took refuge in his own anger- always much easier for him to manage than abasement. She would only leave him crushed and bleeding on the floor.

His mouth became a straight line, his eyes unsparing. "If you go out that door now, do not bother coming back! I warn you, Louise. Make your choice very carefully."

She found the press, and the door opened for her. "Oh, believe me...I already have!" and walked out, not bothering to look back.

He stood in the doorway and shouted after her. "This is war, Louise! Do you hear me?" He went outside and watched as the gloom of the cellar swallowed her whole. "I will see another step into your shoes, Sorelli! Back to the corps de ballet for you, Louise! **LOUISE!**" he howled, all of his frustration, anger, and longing inherent in his cry.

Breathing heavily, he walked slowly back inside and found himself standing in front of the fireplace. His wild eyes fell on an exquisite ballerina sculpture, the color an iridescent pearl, one slender arm held above her head, the other extended behind with a supple leg lifted in a graceful arabesque. With a hoarse cry, his arm swept out and knocked it from its perch, along with a lamp of delicate milk glass which had belonged to his mother. The dancer crashed to the floor and rolled to a stop beneath his armchair. Numbly he surveyed the mess of broken glass, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, and wondered how their pleasant interlude had devolved into this. His shoes crunching through the broken glass, he walked to his chair and fell boneless into it. He needed to go after her. Leaning forward, he dropped his head in his hands and rocked silently back and forth.

It was over.

* * *

** Um...a****ny volunteers to be Erik's new BFF? There's a position open at the moment. ****He's got cookies- **_**chocolate**_** :) ****He expects all applicants to be musically inclined, (absolutely **_**no **_**dancers) and must be able to make zabaglione ****in large quantities****. Instruments are fine****-**** in fact, encouraged. No steel guitars- they hurt his ears. He has very sensitive ears ;) Oh, and must like damp and creepy dark places.**


	20. Chapter 20

"You've barely touched your soup." Philippe studied her as she aimlessly pushed her spoon around the bowl. "Want to talk about it? My sisters always manage to feel better after I lend them a sympathetic ear, and Raoul often has the need to seek my council," he smiled, "although sometimes I have forced it upon him. It might work for you as well."

Louise glanced up at him in surprise. He was watching her with those cold blue eyes that gave the impression of a distant and unfeeling man. The reality was quite different. The comte was one of the warmest individuals she had ever had the pleasure of knowing. He was well liked by men, and if the admiring looks of other women was any indication, the ladies as well. She shook her head. "It isn't something you can help me with, Philippe, although I wish you could."

"Perhaps I can." he replied softly. "You need only try, Louise."

She pushed her bowl away, finally giving up on the consomme and took a sip of wine. She looked thoughtfully at him. "If you knew someone whom you suspected of doing something that was...that was very wrong, and you knew people were...were _hurt_ by it, what would you do?" She raised a slim hand when he started to speak. "This...person is very dear to you, and if those transgressions are revealed to others, it could very well lead to the destruction of t-this friend."

"In a literal or figurative sense?"

"Literal."

"If I knew more about this person's crime, it would help me to better form an answer."

She shook her head. "No, it wouldn't help because- " She stopped talking when the maitre d' approached their table. Finished with lunch, they left the Cafe de la Paix and were soon on the sidewalk. Built by Garnier as a place for the opera crowd to have a late supper, the baroque restaurant was just across the street from the theatre, making it popular with some of the company as well. Many of the younger members steered clear of it, being too high for their meager pockets.

It had been a week since she left Erik's home with his furious words following her as she put distance between herself and his rage, fully aware of her own very real anger. He had not made his presence known to her since then, even though he'd promised her a war of retribution. Nevertheless, she had developed an uncomfortable itch right between the shoulder blades, wondering if his eyes followed her as she walked by a dark corner or past a marble column. It was an uneasy feeling because _she _was in his cross-hairs this time. While she had cried for their lost friendship, her monstrous imagination managed to keep her awake most nights.

She tried to reconcile what she knew of Erik, compared to the brutal nature of the murders. That he was capable of killing someone, Sorelli knew without a doubt. But the rape and murder of innocent women? Unbidden, there arose the recollection of being cornered in the mirrored room by a man intent on taking what she wasn't offering. He had finally come to his senses that day, but had he finally snapped? That would mean choosing a victim randomly, and stalking her without the heat of anger fueling his movements- stalking the women and murdering them in cold blood. She had enjoyed the company of a man she was now considering a prime suspect in a number of heinous crimes.

She had put together her circumstantial evidence. There was the callous disregard for the murdered women- unfeeling even for Erik. His insistence that _she _was perfectly safe from harm. How could he promise that unless he was in an unequivocal position to know? There was the proximity of the killings to the Garnier. The purple hat supposedly found by him in the third cellar that no doubt had belonged to Sophie. His need to be controlling, and his temper which though banked, could flare up rapidly and sear anyone in its radius. She told herself time and again that she was over-reacting and foolish, but here was a phantom that moved about just like Erik did- with stealth as his first choice. No matter how many times she called herself every kind of fool for thinking her damning thoughts, they circled around and started all over again.

What she wrestled with the most, was the knowledge that she had done nothing to stop him if he was indeed the killer. But her great affection for him held her back- and it was tearing her apart.

As they strolled back to the opera house and afternoon rehearsal, Philippe tucked Louise's hand in the crook of his arm. "All right, my dear. You were saying?"

The time for confessions of any sort was over now. She rather thought she had said too much already. Her gaze touched on the pedestrians passing them by, then swept on impassively until her eyes began searching the shadows between buildings. _Much more to your liking, isn't it, Erik?_ She glanced at Philippe, unfairly comparing the two men. The comte was an intelligent man with strong even features, an athletic build, and a courtly manner that was pleasing to her. He was everything a woman could want in a man- everything _she _had ever wanted.

Except for the keen intelligence which lit those amber eyes to an uncomfortable degree, Erik, on the other hand, was the antithesis of Philippe. Secretive and sinister, there was nothing about the masked man which instilled confidence or good will. His tall and lanky frame, spidery hands and silent gait, only managed to create fear and uneasiness. And what was beneath the mask was something else entirely. It had been ten years since that terror filled afternoon when she saw it for the first time, and the memory was just as fresh now as though it had been only yesterday. His quick mood changes would very often catch her unawares. But Erik was also hiding a different sort of man beneath his unconventional exterior- one who _could_ be gentle and compassionate. She had been the recipient of his brusque kindness on many an occasion, even as he became uncomfortable with her gratitude. Which made her wonder if she had taken leave of her senses for daring to think such depraved thoughts about him. Her dilemma would soon drive her to lunacy.

She sighed and squeezed Philippe's arm, saying firmly, "Nothing. Let's just put it down to my weariness with rehearsals and leave it at that. Will you be there tonight for Coppelia?"

He looked at her upturned face, her hazel eyes appearing tired, her manner a trifle depressed. "I would like nothing better, unfortunately I'm leaving for Lyon in another hour. There's no help for it, I'm afraid, but I will be back in two days, and then I shall catch your performance and take you to supper afterward. All right?"

She forced a smile and nodded. "Wish me luck then?"

The comte took both of her hands in his and squeezed them gently. "You have it, you know that. The carriage will be at your disposal this evening. It has been an uneventful week, but remember- no walking home."

He left her at the entrance to the Rotunde des Abonnes, and Louise watched from the doorway as he entered his carriage. With a sigh, she turned and made her way to her dressing room preparing herself for a busy afternoon. Rehearsals and any last minute costume fittings, and then home early for a light dinner before the performance. She felt a brief moment of pain that there would be no late suppers after the ballet in the house beside the lake; no lively conversations about the individual performances, or Erik's rapier wit concerning members of the audience. She wouldn't be laughing over something he had noticed and saved to tell her. No. That was finished now, wasn't it? And it hurt dreadfully.

* * *

The barouche stopped in front of her apartment, and the driver hopped down and opened the door for her. Louise thanked him and passed through the rose arbor into the back garden. Erik had already dismounted Cesar, leaving the gelding further back, and watched now through the shrubbery as she called for the old cat that had taken up residence there. He stared with narrowed eyes at the young woman, still furious with her for her stubbornness. She was missing the point entirely, perhaps even willfully, when he had warned her away from the comte. It wasn't that he thought her beneath the man, but that way of life would never suit her. _He _realized that. Why couldn't she? But Erik lied to himself as well- he wouldn't admit to the jealousy cutting through him like a well-honed blade every time she was in de Chagny's company. Which seemed to be on a more frequent basis, he thought bitterly.

He had spent his days locked inside the little house- locked inside his _head_ as he worked without stopping on Don Juan Triumphant. Eventually the opera wore down his reserves of energy, putting him in that shadowland between reality and dream of which the music seemed more than capable of doing. Food and drink were forgotten while he labored over the organ, picturing a pink mouth with a full bottom lip, her arms tugging him close, pulling him down into a whirlwind of unbelievable emotion and consuming need. His agile mind rose to the occasion, and gave him what he craved; the bliss to be found in her loving arms, and the sensuous notes which seemed to strike sparks from his very fingertips, took him there.

The music worked its black magic as it had many times before, leaving him drained, but still aching for something he could never have. Reality would once again intrude on his fertile mind, reminding him that he was still very much a singular entity and Louise remained beyond his reach. Would that he could one day sink into that sweet oblivion with her and never resurface. He fled the cellars when darkness spread its black mantle, prowling the city as its day people slumbered safely in their neat homes above ground. He would follow her progress home from the theatre, ending up right where he was now, gazing at the warm glow of lamplight spilling from her window. Sometimes he was rewarded with a tiny glimpse of her as she passed in front of it, a mere silhouette, but it eased his longing for her just a bit. A week had crawled by, and he missed her presence in his home, yearned for her light laughter and spirited conversation when she would do her best to tease him out of his occasional sulks- which she usually accomplished quite nicely.

He leaned further back into the shrubbery when the apartment door opened and Maria stuck her head out. "Cara? Thank goodness you are home. What are you doing out here?"

Louise straightened up and stretched tired muscles as the cat wound his way around her legs. "Just catching my breath after this evening. I'll be in shortly, tante."

"He is a needy cat," Maria said affectionately. "He was very vocal for his supper this evening. How did it go tonight? Did Swanhilde once again save Franz from Dr. Coppelius?"

"It went all right. The scene changes during the second act were sloppy, and our pas de deux could have been better, but that is opening night, and anything can happen. You go on to bed, darling."

"The count's man brought you home?"

"Yes."

"You haven't mentioned Erik in a while. Was he there tonight?"

She shrugged. "I haven't seen him. As to his attending this evening- I don't know. We...we aren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment."

Maria regarded her niece for a few seconds, not concerned with what the young woman said, but rather what she didn't say. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not at the moment, no." _But very soon, I think._

"All right then. Don't stay out here too long."

She sat down on one of the wrought iron benches and the old cat joined her, jumping up beside her and tucking his legs beneath him- he immediately began his rusty purr that to Louise sounded like the buzzing of musical chords straining to find a melody. "You should sleep in the house tonight, for it's much more comfortable than out here. Winter will soon be upon us and you, my friend are no longer in the springtime of youth." She had been trying to coax him inside for weeks now, but he was stubborn and wouldn't budge. "You haven't had a very nice life, have you, monsieur?" Her sigh was deep as she bowed her head and whispered, "Much like someone else I know." She laid a light hand on the cat's head and stroked him, wishing with all her heart she could go back to the last enjoyable evening she had spent in Erik's company. Back before their argument- back before her ugly doubts set in. How can one feel affection for a man who just may be on a killing spree? Why doesn't fondness turn to hate and loathing immediately, instead of remaining to clutter up the thought processes?

The newspapers were hinting that the killings had ended. Nothing had happened since Edith had been stalked, and at first those in the opera house were on edge waiting for whatever was to come next. Searches had been conducted, turning up nothing and everyone was persuaded to travel in pairs in the massive building and stay out of the cellars, this being reinforced with locked doors open only to those with business there. But after a week of tension, life had returned to normal, although Louise didn't believe it for a minute. The cat growling beside her, brought her out of her reverie in a hurry. His ears were laid back, and he stared fixedly at the bushes not more than a few yards away. She was on her feet in seconds, and pulling the short dagger out of its sheath where it rested in the pocket of her jacket.

Her heart beginning to pound, she glanced quickly around in fright as she backed slowly toward the door. "Who's there?" she said faintly, her backward movement arrested when Erik stepped through the bayberry shrubs, their waxy gray fruit aromatic in the warm night air.

Her first emotion was a leaping joy upon seeing him, but then her mouth thinned as he stopped and looked dourly from her face to the wicked-looking knife she held in front of her. He put up both hands in a gesture of peace. "I mean you no harm, Louise."

"Why were you hiding in the bushes?"

"Making certain no one interrupted while you communed with the little beast," he replied calmly, as the cat jumped down from the bench and inched further away from the man.

Her eyes never leaving his, she backed up until she was pressed against the door. "As you can see, I am perfectly well. And I intend to stay that way. What do you really want, Erik?"

He lowered his hands and sighed. "To see you home safe. As I have been doing for weeks now."

This startled her. "You've been _following _me? Why didn't you make yourself known?"

"Under the present circumstances, I didn't think you would take the news kindly," and he looked pointedly at the knife in her hand, "which has been borne out, I think. There was no need for you to know I was there. I meant well. That's all." He gestured to the bench. "Will you join me? I think we need to talk."

"No."

He hid his surprise at her vehemence, not wanting to end this on another bad note. His fault again. "May I ask why?"

Her composure slipped a little at his soft cajoling voice and she stiffened her spine. "We have nothing to say to one another anymore. I'm fairly sure you have other less savory things to commit yourself to, but if you are interested in the slightest, Edith has recovered from the fright of her life!"

His eyes had taken on that wicked gleam she feared, and she reached behind her for the door knob. She would scream if he came any closer.

"Just _what_ are you implying? That I had something to do with that wretched girl's misadventure?" He started toward her, and she jabbed the knife in his direction. He nodded at the dagger in her trembling hand. "You're holding that all wrong," he said irritably. "The best strike for a novice is a downward stroke, Louise. More force behind it. But at the rate you're going, you will be disarmed and gutted. Much too timid," and he took another step toward her.

"Any closer, Erik and I will scream, I promise you!" She got the door open. "I have nothing more to say to you. Remember? We are at war now. A war _you _declared."

He had gone very still, pain spreading in his chest at her words. She was his great strength and vast weakness- one seemingly canceling out the other, but he felt as though she had plunged the blade into his heart and given it a savage twist. _Bravo, Louise. __Quite the little_ _assassin__. First strike and a critical_ _blow__._ "You know my temper," he said evenly. "I very often act first and think later."

"That's what frightens me," she whispered, tears clogging her throat.

"What _I_ find frightening, is the fact that you consider me guilty without a trial. What has caused you to think this way?"

"Because you had that purple hat in your possession, t-that's why!" she blurted out.

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"The hat that belonged to the murdered girl. You gave it to Madame Giry. Don't deny it, Erik."

"I don't _deny_ it, you insufferable girl! I told you I found it." He eyed her with exasperation. "Use your head, Louise. Why would I keep a piece of incriminating evidence like that out in the open for anyone to see?"

"Who else goes into your house besides me? You _were_ safe except for the fact that I knew the murdered woman!"

"This is your reason for accusing me?" his words an angry hiss. "A _hat?"_

The tears which had threatened to fall were now running freely down both cheeks. "I-It's many things. Your...your very nature. I have over-looked it for too long." She regarded him with sorrowful eyes. "I really...I don't know what to think anymore. I-I just don't know!" The knife was shaking badly now, and she grasped it tighter, her knuckles gleaming white.

"My..._nature _as you call it, is entirely man-made, though obviously you are leaning more toward me as being the fiend. I understand completely why you would think such a thing. I look like an abomination- surely my actions would more naturally suit _this_?" flicking a contemptuous finger at the mask. "Under those circumstances, I can see why you would assume the worst of Erik. Friendship aside, of course. Not wasting any time finding your scapegoat, are you, Louise?" he sneered. "Such devotion and loyalty to me. Does this mean I should look forward to a visit from the gendarmerie very soon?"

She shook her head mutely and dashed a shaking hand across her eyes.

He hummed a rebuke. "Another grave mistake, child. Never take your eyes from your opponent. It is usually deadly to do so." He bowed stiffly to her. "In light of your recent suspicions, allow me to remove my monstrous presence."

"Erik!" She stared at the shrubs, disturbed from his passing, and felt the shiver go up her back and into her soul. The knife dropped from numb fingers and clattered to the cobbles.

* * *

The rest had gone on their lunch break, but she walked in the opposite direction from the rest of them. Louise was eating a sandwich in her dressing room and most likely the little rats would all be there, pestering her with questions and telling their boring stories. Sorelli was like that, she thought affectionately; suffer them for a while before shooing them all out when her patience reached its end, tired of their chatter and childish squabbles.

Estelle hefted the nearly full bottle of red wine she had found sitting innocently beside a wooden chair backstage. She looked carefully around before picking it up and hiding it in the folds of her gauze skirt, along with a set of keys to the cellars she had borrowed from the stage director's office. He was gone from the building for lunch and would never miss them, for she would be sure to have them back on the wall before he returned. Keys in hand, she headed straight for the stage door which led to the cellars, her intention to find a quiet place to drink, and the boxes were out. They were being cleaned at the moment, and Giry's mother was in Estelle's favorite- Box Five. She had a lovely hour to herself; she wasn't needed onstage until then. The third cellar would do just fine.

She felt no hesitation going to the one place the others avoided so strenuously; she was very sure now that Edith had used her vivid imagination to get attention. She snickered. It was always the quiet mousy ones that turned out to be the most needy. She quickly went through the door and took the stairs to the third cellar. She was familiar with this area, for it was here that she lost her virginity two years ago to one of the firemen. There were enough places to sit and enjoy her wine and rolled cigarettes in peace. With a contented sigh, Estelle sat down on a set piece from the Roi de Lahore, and lit her cigarette, stretched out her slender legs, and took a large drink from her cadged bottle. She stifled a burp with the back of one hand.

"Oh, Estelle, what a little swine you are," and giggled as she settled back on the gold painted stool and took another swig.

* * *

He grinned, watching as she swilled stolen wine from the bottle _he _had stolen from one of the scene-shifters, and placed where she couldn't miss it. He knew how much the pretty little bird liked her wine. They all reminded him of flighty little birds as they landed light as thistledown on their toes during practice sessions. They fluttered and quarreled just like the tiny sparrows seeking bits of stale bread from the hordes of people in the Bois. He had followed this one's progress through the theatre, ready to join her wherever she decided to stop and enjoy her stolen treasure. The fact that she wished to visit his cellars where it was quiet _and _private, was an added inducement. He had no wish to keep her waiting very long, and stepped out of his damp, inky corner, his smile wide and insane in his melted features, the very grotesqueness of the thing standing before her, causing Estelle to nearly choke on the Merlot. She recovered and drew air into her lungs, screaming loud and shrill.

He screwed up his eyes, offended by her distress, and felt the rage coming on from her screams."You _must_ _not _do that," and backhanded her, Estelle falling off the stool, her head snapping back from the blow, and leaving her momentarily stunned. "It won't take long," he muttered, as he pulled the black scarf from a pocket and wound it around both hands. "It never does," his smile wide and greedy.

* * *

The tall, angular man known as the Shade, was waiting for him on the tiny dock as Erik rowed across the lake. His actual name was Gilberte Caron, and over the years they occasionally crossed paths. He had shown up at the Garnier not long after its doors first opened, and managed to convey to Poligny the need for someone to police the cellars from any of the myriad people who passed through the doors of the opera house on a regular basis. A chance meeting in a corridor backstage had left both men at an impasse, but Erik saw a way of making Gilberte an ally underground; the cellars were vast and two could watch better than one, the Shade guarding the upper reaches of the cellars, leaving Erik the third on down. Gilberte kept his council as to Erik's presence, and except for the occasional murderer, he thought wryly, the arrangement had worked very well. The only other denizen of the cellars was the rat catcher, but they rarely saw one another for which Erik was profoundly grateful. The Shade was one thing to come across in his travels, but the fulsome odors of the filthy rat catcher with his tin lantern held to his face, casting it in orange flame, was something else entirely. Even he could be discriminatory it would seem.

Together they made their way up to the third cellar and one of the rooms used to store wood for the making of set pieces. It was here that Babineaux, the rat catcher had been checking his traps as he did each and everyday. Finding evidence of human habitation, he had run down Gilberte to tell him, and he in his turn, alerted Erik to the presence of their unwanted guest. He gestured to six foot lengths of framing lumber leaning up against the wall and Erik walked over, bending down for a closer look. He stared into the cubbyhole made from the two by sixes, seeing what resembled a pile of dirty laundry before the smell hit him.

"He has been living here," Gilberte said, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the awful smells assaulting them, "and not very well by the look of it."

Erik carefully studied the pile of discarded rags. "His bed obviously. He knows these tunnels very well, does he not?" One pale finger rested against his upper lip as he regarded the bones of small animals scattered around his cubbyhole. ""It seems he is trying to out-catch the rat catcher."

Gilberte felt a twinge of nausea. "We are dealing with a real lunatic then."

"You have never gone days without food, have you, Gilberte?" Erik asked in an even tone.

"Oh, I've been hungry before, but not starved enough to eat vermin." He glanced curiously at the masked man. "Have you?"

When no answer was forthcoming, Gilberte knew it was best to pretend he never asked the question. "Babineaux is more than enough to stomach, but this?" He shook his head. "Vagrants _have_ been known to wander in here, and perhaps he has lasted longer than most, but it's only a matter of time before he is caught."

"He is no stranger to these cellars." He glanced into the dim corridor behind him. "He is able to hide from you, as well as navigate around most of my alarms. One was set off two weeks ago, but when I arrived at the lake there was no one in it."

Gilberte toed a few of the rags in distaste. "Well, it's obvious his intent wasn't to bathe. Not much use for water- or soap, for that matter." He looked at Erik with a gleam of amusement in his shadowed eyes. "It would seem that we have _two _Phantoms, my friend."

He shook his head. "Only one. This creature's reign is over. I have no choice but to- " He paused as a scream rang out only a short distance from where they now stood, and he said over his shoulder as he took off at a run, "Company, and I think _he_ is entertaining a guest of his own!"

They were amid the set pieces, a bottle of wine spilling its ruby contents along the floor, and staining Estelle's gauze skirt the color of blood. The tattered man never looked up as he tightened the silk scarf around the dancer's neck, and Erik easily reached a hand out, and grabbed the back of the man's coat, yanking him savagely off the girl. He dragged him as the man began to struggle, but he was no match for Erik's superior strength.

Erik regarded the girl who was crouched in a miserable ball, her breathing loud and ragged as she sucked in gulps of blessed air to starved lungs. The girl's neck was red from the scarf pulled brutally tight, and a bruise sat high on one cheekbone. "Can you walk?"

Estelle could do nothing but stare at the man made of night shades and moon-glow. If she survived this day, she would never set foot in the cellars again. There were strange creatures down here. She shuddered in reaction, feling cold and numb.

Erik was losing patience. "Answer me, girl! _Can _you walk?"

When she at last nodded a jerky response, he spoke again, his voice clipped, "Go straight to Sorelli's room. Tell no one what you saw here. Do you understand me? _Go _to Sorelli."

She continued to look at him, her mouth working, but no sound emerging. Her eyes wide and petrified, she hitched in another tortured breath and nodded again. Gilberte reached a hand down and assisted Estelle to her feet. "Can you make it on your own?"

She hung onto his soft voice, letting it calm her rising panic, and looked up at a face cast in shadow by the brim of a gray felt hat. She clung briefly to his hand, then with one last glance at Erik and the thing on the floor, she turned and ran for the stairs, tripping in her haste, eager to leave them behind. Something bad was going to happen- she had seen it in the strange glowing eyes of the dark man. Her uneven breaths mixed with relieved sobs as she found her voice at last.

Erik knelt with one knee pressed hard into the man's chest, the killer's hands bound with the Punjab. He looked into the horror of that ruined face, the man's eyes wild with rage and dawning recognition. It was a solemn moment as one killer stared into the eyes of another. He glanced up at the Shade. "His face has been burned off," as he studied the smooth stretched skin, shiny and red- the melted remnants of a nose, the right eye pulled nearly closed by ridged scar tissue.

"You were here before, I think. Correct me if I am wrong, but you were a dungeon guard ten years ago, weren't you?"

The man's eyes never left Erik's. "A guard, yes," he rasped. "Yes, that is what I was then. How did you know?"

Gilberte turned his head, gagging at the foul odor rising from the destroyed human lying on the floor. He turned to the masked man, who was observing the killer with detachment. "Yes. How _did _you know this?"

Erik never took his eyes from the killer's. "An educated guess, if you will. He was familiar with these passages, moving around in them the same as we do. The Commune saw many of their kind here during the war. Interested in the fight only for their own gain- whatever that entailed. What made you return after all these years?"

"The cellars are dark and lovely. I recalled them when my apartment building burned down- unfortunately with me in it. After I left hospital I had...I had nowhere else to go. People were afraid of me then- the very same women who flocked to me before the fire would... scream when they saw me." In an odd way, he was satisfied. He was finally having the conversation for which he'd hungered, and the words poured from his twisted mouth. "I worked as a concierge at the Hotel Victoria Chatelet, but I-I was let go- too frightening even for stable work. It infuriated me, messieurs." He paused for breath and studied Erik closely. "_You _understand what I'm telling you...don't you? The war?"

"No."

"You hide your ugliness, but I couldn't. I-I couldn't get used to a mask- I could not...could not breathe when I wore it. No matter...most of the time I slept during the day and went out at night. But eventually I found myself looking for the very ones who feared me so. I never meant to kill anyone. I only wanted a warm body. I had no money for the whores, but t-they always screamed. I-I had to keep them quiet, didn't I?" He looked up into the dimness above him and sighed wearily. "I hate it when they scream. So different from the old days. The women brought here would offer me anything to let them go." His laugh would have raised the hackles of a lesser man, but for Erik, it meant very little. "I took it too. The dividends of the job were sweet, and the glorious days of the socialist ended much too soon. A pity. Such...a-a pity."

The former guard knew he was going to die, and the thought didn't bother him. He was tired of struggling. Tired of being alone.

Gilberte moved up a step. "How did you come and go?"

"Through a storm drain." He cut his eyes up at his captors. "I found that woman wandering around the theatre. She... ended up near the kitchens and...and I grabbed her. She fought me, but I hauled her through the door and brought her here just to be safe." He looked up at the faceless man, those ill-begotten eyes studying him curiously. He grimaced in pain, and Erik eased up on the man's chest a little. "Afterwards...she wouldn't stop crying-" He worked to suck more air into his lungs, the pressure exerted by the thin man above him surprising. "I put her body in the rue Auber. I saw you on occasion checking some of those...those alarums you kept in the passages below, and I realized you would step up your search for me if I left her here. I set one off once- I even thought I should set my _own _trap for you- There is only room in these cellars for one. Only...only o-one." He gasped, finding it much more difficult to breathe with that damned bony knee shoved harder into his diaphragm.

"So very true, my misguided and insane friend. So very, very true," he breathed, as he leaned ever closer to the man who dared invade _Erik's_ opera house.

* * *

"Why don't you ever drink the Cassius beer, Louise? Don't you like the taste?" Meg Giry watched with interest as Louise poured water into a glass from the carafe sitting on the console table and took a drink.

She looked over at Giry and Jammes sitting together on the sofa. One of the new chorus girls sat quietly in the slipper chair as the two ballet rats chattered nonstop. "I don't drink the beer for a very good reason, Meg," and she winked at the young woman in a pale yellow dress, watching their antics with wide blue eyes. "I wouldn't want to get the hiccups for one thing, like Estelle did during Act II of Giselle." The new chorus girl smiled shyly, and Sorelli smiled back. "Have you settled in, Christine? Finding your way around all right?"

She nodded shyly. "Yes. Everyone has been so nice and...and helpful...except for Carlotta. I don't think she likes me very well." She glanced quickly at the two girls when Giry snorted in amusement.

Louise frowned at them in irritation, then turned back to Christine. She was a very pretty girl, her blonde good looks cool and prepossessing. "That doesn't make you unique, Christine. She feels that way about all of us. There's only one she accepts with any amount of goodwill."

"Who?"

"Why, Carlotta, who else?"

The younger woman's smile was warmer, and Louise thought they were making progress, when she stood up. "I have to go now, Mademoiselle Sorelli. The chorus master is very strict."

"It's Louise," she said gently. "And yes, he can be a bit of a bear."

The door no sooner closed on her, when Giry made a rude noise. "She's a little mouse, isn't she? I hardly knew she was in the room. She would run from her own shadow."

Jammes felt obligated to add to the conversation. "She's Swedish," she said importantly. "That's what Lenore told me. You know Lenore, Sorelli. From the alto section? She said Daae just left the music conservatory. She's an orphan."

The call boy's bell had been rung a few minutes ago, and Louise looked up from the newspaper she was trying to read, eying them with disfavor. "Well? Shouldn't you two be getting back?"

As one they climbed to their feet and headed reluctantly to the door. "She's still a bashful little thing. She's a singer, Louise. Why doesn't she visit with Carlotta?" Giry said sullenly.

Sorelli snorted. "Would _you_, Meg?"

"Bah! Carlotta is a crone. Of course not, but Daae isn't all that interesting. She barely said one word."

Louise shrugged. "Compared to you two magpies, she didn't," and laughed at the twin looks of indignation they gave her, "but that's not really saying much. Now off with you."

She sat there in peace and quiet for a full ten minutes before the door suddenly opened, banging hard against the wall. She watched in shock as an hysterical Taillier stumbled into the room, her face bruised and her clothing torn. Sorelli was dismayed to see a livid mark circling the girl's throat as she headed straight for Louise and collapsed in her arms, harsh sobs filling the little room. She tried to make sense of what the girl was saying.

"What has happened? Who did this thing?" When the girl violently shook her head and said nothing, Louise pushed her into a chair and poured a glass of water, holding it to her lips. "Drink, cherie."

The girl shoved the glass away. "In the c-c-cellars. He was in the cellars. His f-face...his face is terrible to see!" Her voice climbed in panic. "He tried to...he tried- Mon Dieu. Oh, mon Dieu!" Estelle left the chair and threw herself into Louise's arms, clutching her with a frantic hold.

"Shh... It's all right. It's all right," she crooned as she held the girl and rocked her gently. But nothing was right anymore, and she felt the grief making inroads on her own composure. Her friend- _her _Erik was responsible for this. It occurred to her too late that locking the door would have been an excellent idea, as it was wrenched open and the man she had once trusted stood there.

* * *

**Next up- Angel of...w_hat?_**


	21. Chapter 21

"Have you come to finish what you started?" She struggled to control the slight tremor in her voice, wishing fleetingly for the dagger residing in the pocket of her skirt, which now hung on a peg behind her dressing screen. She was trapped in this room with Estelle and helpless against Erik's wiry strength and insanity. Looking down at the terrified young dancer, she realized just how foolish she had been. Her suspicions should never have been discounted because of a long standing friendship. She eyed him warily as he stood in the doorway, hands fisted at his sides.

He took two steps toward her, and Louise struggled to remove the clutching arms of Estelle. Frightened of him, she nevertheless felt rage beginning to percolate through her veins. "I'm not going to just sit and wait for you," she spat, as both women watched his advance into the room. Her fear and sorrow at this turn of events was nearly paralyzing her, but she refused to make it any easier for him. The younger woman continued to grip her with panicky strength, and impatiently Louise shook her off. "I should have informed the commissaire as soon as I realized what you were doing." She sucked in a harsh breath, forcing away the myriad emotions threatening to break her. "You certainly had- "

"Sorelli! No...you don't understand. He- "

"All these years I was so very wrong about you! You really are a monster, aren't you?" She stood swaying on her feet waiting for the first blow to land, or the killing embrace of the Punjab to encircle her neck. But her fear was curiously off-set by her own role in what her friend really was and what it made her- an enabling fool allowing his rampage, and now she was being led to the slaughter. "You'll hang for this, Erik, or have a moment with...with Madame Guillotine-"

"Yes, and applauding, I dare say," he uttered in his beautiful, dead voice.

"Please. I beg you for the friendship I once held dear! Just listen to-"

"I do not wish to hear it."

He had progressed into the room, his fearsome eyes heated with a fury beyond anything she had ever seen in her erstwhile friend. He came to a stop just before reaching them, his breath coming hard and fast as though he had been running, and no doubt he had- chasing his quarry to ground in this very room. She finally stopped to hear Estelle's ever increasing volume, and what she was saying shocked Louise to her very core.

"Sorelli, mon Dieu! He sent me to you...he is not the one! He _saved_ me. This one saved me!" Estelle put out a hand to Erik, but snatched it back hurriedly as though being approached by a snarling dog.

He ignored her, his eyes never leaving Sorelli's face. He burned with a rage that he fought to restrain, his long fingers curled hard around each other to control their shaking; flinging the epithet of monster at him had cut to the bone. Louise stared back at him, as the full consequence of what she had done, smote her with an awful feeling of doom. Her mouth moved soundlessly as the implications of all she had said to him attacked her with a vengeance. "Erik. I didn't know... Please...I-"

"Be quiet." This was said in a tone that brooked no disobedience and she heeded that clipped command, knowing to do anything else would be infinitely stupid. His frightening eyes rooted her to the floor for far too long before he turned them on Estelle. The young woman hung onto Sorelli as the figure in black spoke in that beautifully modulated voice, and she found herself listening closely to it.

"Mademoiselle, I would be forever in your debt if you would not mention this to anyone. He will never again harm you- or any woman, for that matter, but I do not want my part in this to be known. Aside from my wish to remain anonymous, it is in your best interests to do so," and both women easily heard the implied threat, couched as it was in velvet.

The young ballerina stuttered in her haste, "No! Never! I w-will never breathe a word of this. He is well and truly gone, monsieur?"

"Yes."

Estelle turned and buried her face against Sorelli and began to cry in earnest. As Louise held the girl, she darted another look at Erik, but he had already walked to the door. One furtive glance into the hallway, and he was gone. She had said nothing more to him, only stared at his rigid back, her heart aching. But she had a feeling he wasn't through with her just yet.

* * *

"You have something of mine, I believe."

The cold voice spoke to her from a corner of the library drenched in shadow. Louise had remained in the Garnier after Estelle was visited by the House doctor and treated for her injuries. The young dancer blamed a fall backstage for her bruised face and torn skirt, but because no one could prove otherwise, it was generally accepted. The physician had his doubts as to the veracity of the girl's story; it was no fall that left a lurid mark encircling her neck, but he said nothing more, except to exhort the young woman to find herself a new gentleman friend.

"Can you believe him, Louise? He thinks my lover tried to strangle me." Estelle was ensconced on the sofa in Sorelli's dressing room, a large afghan throw covering her while she drank a cup of chamomile tea. She winced from the pain of her sore throat, "_What _lover?" she croaked, looking tiredly at the other woman. "I'll never go off by myself again. If not for...for-" She looked at her in puzzlement. "You _know_ him. You called him by name- Erik. Why does he cover his face?" She took another sip of tea and leaned her head back. She had heard that name before. "Who...?" Understanding dawned as Taillier thought back to Giselle's debut. "Erik... He is Erik of the red roses?"

Louise sighed and met her somber gaze steadily. "Never mind that. Just remember what he said. Do not mention him or what happened to anyone! Do you understand, Estelle?"

The girl stared at Louise's grim face and nodded. "He is dangerous, isn't he?"

"Very."

"Shouldn't the commissaire at least know that the killer has been caught?"

"For what reason, Taillier? How would you explain all those little details he would no doubt ask? The man is d...can no longer prey on women. It serves no purpose now. _He _saved your life, now do him the same courtesy."

"It is our secret then," Estelle whispered and closed her eyes.

Jammes and Meg Giry insisted on a quick visit with their friend, and listened with increasing amusement as Estelle told them how she fell down the backstage stairs. Little Jammes stifled a giggle at this, and Estelle stared at her with venom. Ignoring her, Cecile asked with a naughty grin, "Did you break your wine bottle when you fell?"

Before an argument could erupt in her dressing room, Sorelli shooed the two girls out. Still excited over her close brush with death, Estelle told Louise everything- the killer finding her in the third cellar near the set pieces, his terrifying attack, and the fortuitous arrival of the two men. "He was nice, Sorelli. He inquired of my health. I've never seen him before in the theatre."

"I _told_ you not to-"

"Not _him._The tall man that was with Er...him. I don't even know his name," and Estelle looked slightly put out by her lack of that knowledge.

In spite of the bruising on her face and throat, she had recovered much of her equilibrium, but the amount of adrenaline which had flooded her system, plus the dose of laudanum the doctor had given her, left her drowsy, and before long she was asleep. Sorelli left her to rest for a while before sending her home. Rehearsal over for the day, she walked to the library for something to help pass the time.

Reflecting on everything that happened did her no good, but she was more than aware of the hollow ache in the vicinity of her heart. She had accused Erik of deeds so heinous, she wondered at her reasoning now, and what madness had taken hold of her. It would seem that she was no different than anyone else- thinking him no better than his sinister appearance would warrant. After all of these years, she had aligned herself with everyone who had ever hurled the epithet of monster at him. She couldn't begin to imagine the hurt and anger he was feeling right now- because of her.

The flames in the sconces flickered restlessly, and shadows grew long across the walls as she ran a finger down the leather spines of the books. When his voice literally fell into the silent space, she jumped, not expecting it, and turned around to face the room. "Erik? Erik...I am so very, very sorry."

There was silence for a time, but Sorelli could still feel his presence, the very walls seeming to breathe in and out, awaiting with a sentient deference, the true master of the House. And so she waited too.

After a handful of minutes had crawled by, he spoke again, "The key. I want it back."

The words were uttered in that same chill, dead voice, and she knew she was not forgiven. They were past that now. Raising her chin, she nodded once. "You shall have it. I only want to say that I am-"

"Leave it inside the rue Scribe door, but come no further than that. You are no longer welcome in my home. Or for that matter, my opera house, although I may yet allow you to stay- there is room enough for the both of us, I suppose, as long as you behave yourself. We shall see. But you must tell no one about me," he warned.

The finality of his words left a yawning emptiness in her which she knew could never be filled, but contrarily she wished to hear emotion in his voice; the need to incite him into anything but this apathy, even anger or the same raw grief she was feeling at the termination of their friendship. But hadn't she been the one to kill it?

"You despise me and I know I deserve it. I won't tell anyone of your existence; I haven't ever and I'll not start now- you have m-my word on that. Estelle can be trusted as well. She owes you her life," the words slipping from her mouth before she could stop them, "but you can't really force me out of here if I choose not to go!"

"Ah, but that would be incorrect, I fear. I brought you here, _I_ can send you away."

His frozen manner frightened her more than anything, and a fine trembling overtook her. "What do you mean?"

"You never wondered how Debienne found his way to Naples? Hardly the traveling kind is our Arthur."

"Why won't you show yourself, Erik?"

"For what reason, Louise?"

"Because that's how adults interact."

"Adults? Hmm. That's what you consider me now? I have climbed from the pit of iniquity that you cast me into, and now have the wherewithal to converse like...oh, _le_ _Comte de Chagny_?"

"Come out where I can see you," she implored him.

"I have always considered your inexhaustible use of the word _friend _to be sadly misplaced, and my suspicions were borne out quite nicely." He moved out from the corner of the large room, a corner that she had thought empty, and stopped. "For what true comrade deserts a friend in need? A dear, _dear _friend, searching for a little of that vaunted faith and loyalty that tripped so easily from your forked tongue?" His eyes drilled into her as though searching for a soul he didn't believe to exist. "The answer, Sorelli?"

He was playing with her now in that hateful way he had when he was angry and disillusioned. She shook her head in the negative, not wanting this to escalate out of control as things between them so often had in the past.

"Well? Nothing to say? You said quite a bit to me only a few hours ago. Come, come, _La _Sorelli. An answer, if you please!"

"I don't know," she managed to whisper.

"Yes, I thought as much." His gaze raked her from head to toe, and she quailed, finding the emotion she craved in the fire of those yellow eyes. "A _false_ one, Louise. Loyalty is a word easily spoken, but so rarely given; sacrifices are sometimes required in the name of friendship- very few have the actual courage to stand fast when faced with adversity. Much easier to align oneself with those throwing the stones. _There _is your answer," he said, just as softly, and turned to leave.

"I know you must detest me now, but I didn't give you away to anyone. Surely that must count for something?"

"Perhaps it was because of your own culpability. Some might consider your coming forward after two murders a little slow in your concern for justice."

"That's not true and you know it!" He ignored this, and continued on his way. "Erik!" He paused, not bothering to turn around, and Sorelli feeling numb at the destruction of her friendship with this complicated and wounded man, heard herself as the words rushed out in a bleak attempt to keep him from leaving. "What did you mean when you said you brought me here?"

He sighed with weariness and a cold desolation. "I kept up with your progress over the years at the San Carlo, and knew when you could no longer advance. You were never a whore, Sorelli or you wouldn't have halted your... _bid,_ shall we say?- for primacy. I wrote Poligny and Debienne about your qualifications, and persuaded them to go and see for themselves. They did, and the rest you already know."

"You knew about...about-"

"Your ill-conceived climb to the top beginning on your back?" and she flinched at his nasty smile and even nastier words, driving all color from her face. "Yes."

"But that would mean you were there and...and-"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Your illustrious and enchanting debut. I was in the theatre and privy to the backstage gossip concerning you and your ballet master- or should I say, your lover? It was quite enlightening."

She recalled that night well, and remembered how she felt Erik to be close by. It would seem her senses were correct after all. "Why were you there?"

He ignored her. "After ascertaining the truth of your fight for the top position through the boudoir, as it were, I thought it best to remove myself from the scene- which I did. Thus, you had no idea I was there. Although I must wonder at your choice for advancement, I could have taken you to the pinnacle of your profession much faster for the same arrangement. But at the time, you seemed to be doing very well on your own. Subsequently, I discovered your progress had _stalled,_ for wont of a better word, and decided you would do much better in Paris."

She was stunned. "You never asked for anything in return from me. Why?"

"You can be very obtuse. Willfully or innocently I have never been able to decide. Maybe I wanted your affection more than," once again his eyes raked her from head to toe, "your other very obvious _charms. _I had hoped we might...that you could possibly-"

In that moment she heard the rampant misery in his voice, and knew he suffered as she did. "I'm sorry for doubting you," she whispered.

"It doesn't matter now, does it?" he said with finality and gestured to the door. "Time to go, Louise."

"You owe me an explanation yet. Who was he?" As bitter as it was, she didn't want to end their conversation, for once it was finished, so were they.

"I owe you nothing." he spat. "You cannot have it both ways, child. You disparage Erik for what you believe he has done, and in the next breath demand answers which he needn't give." He sighed heavily, thrusting hands into his pockets and leaned negligently against the book shelves. He regarded her silently until she became restive, gaining some small satisfaction from her turmoil. Finally, "He was a guard here ten years ago. Apparently his memories of those days were quite different from ours, and he wished to return to them. He was maimed in a fire and shunted aside for being hideous. He had nowhere to go, and decided to make the Garnier his new home. He was using the theatre to hide away in during the day, and preyed on women at night. There is your monster, Sorelli. Deformed as I, but clearly much more insane."

She cringed just as he meant for her to do, but her eyes never dropped from his. "Why didn't you discover his presence sooner? Your alarms would have gone off." She was delaying the inevitable- afraid for the time coming ever closer when they would no longer be confidantes.

"I told you once that they did go off, but he got away. He knew the cellars almost as well as I do. It's over now, and life can go on as always."

He turned to go, then halted, not looking at her. "I nearly killed him for taking your innocence. But then, you gave it away, didn't you?"

_It was mine to_ _give- never yours, even though you once tried to claim_ _it for yourself_. She closed her eyes briefly then opened them, surprised to see that he had become a watery blur. "I only wish I had known you were in Naples then. I really do." His tone had left a dreary desolation in its wake, and she tried desperately to come up with a way of fixing what had been shattered. In a small voice, "Will you ever forgive me?"

He turned and looked at her, his eyes bleak. "I highly doubt it."

She waited until he was truly gone before she broke down.

* * *

Life did go on for them all. Louise threw herself into the life of the stage with unremitting energy; Philippe returned from Lyon and was pleasantly surprised when she burst into tears upon their reunion. For the next few days Erik moved about the opera house, every inch the Phantom he was proclaimed to be, pretending there had never been a young ballerina who had brought heat and light into his barren world.

His existence was as solitary as it had ever been, and the hard glitter of his eyes remained long after his last meeting with Louise. Her betrayal had caused a hurt that sliced like the sharpest of knives, leaving him despondent and embittered. But he had considered their relationship to have been based on mutual respect, and it was a painful blow to find that she had none at all for him. He climbed to the rue Scribe exit the day after their last conversation, and found the key returned. He stared at it lying so innocently on his palm, and hurriedly closed his fingers around it, hopelessly seeking a touch of warmth from the hand that last held it.

He tucked himself away inside his house and worked on his opera, drinking far too much wine and eating very little, even for him. He would, after a period of wallowing in his own pity, manage to take himself in hand and sober up briefly, exchanging Burgundy for black coffee. Dressing in fresh clothes, he would sit down at the piano, trying to make sense out of his drunken scribblings, only to have his anger at her erupt once more, and he would start the whole process over again. He found himself embracing his misery, if that were possible; it was an old friend, and he was far more used to it than contentment. In this manner, his days spun out, never really certain _what _music he wrote, along with the conviction that it simply wasn't possible to consume all of the alcohol in Paris.

He found solace in dream Louise's arms- when he wasn't cursing the flesh and blood one. That he missed her terribly, went without saying- after ten years of roaring silence, his world had been filled with the music of a woman's voice once more, and he had reveled in the delicious sound of it. Now his house was again far too quiet, and he longed for her light laughter as she teased him into a better mood. Until he could work through his considerable anger toward her, he reasoned it was best to leave her be, but her absence left him with a nagging hunger that would not be appeased.

Finally, he staggered to his coffin and tipped himself in, sleeping like the dead for hours, the irony of it amusing him. Upon waking, he bathed and dressed in wool frock coat and trousers, forced a meal down his throat, and gathered the detritus of a fortnight's imbibing into a gunny sack, all the while moving carefully due to the remnants of a headache and queasy stomach. Never again, he thought sourly, and set off for the surface and the opera rehearsal that was taking place at that moment onstage. It was Carmen, and he stood observing it for a handful of minutes, listening with a tepid interest. He was about to leave when he spied a new face in the chorus.

A blonde haired girl in the soprano section; he listened closely with his musician's ear, managing to isolate her voice from the rest. What he heard intrigued him. Curious, and with a growing elation, he leaned forward from where he stood and closed his eyes. He tilted his head and concentrated on the girl and her timbre- light lyric at the moment, but with work, she could approach full. A higher tessitura than a soubrette- much more weight if shown the way to achieve it. His thoughts flew with this plum dropped into his lap, and his excitement leaped and pulsated with the knowledge that Carlotta would soon be an anecdote. He watched the girl- even surrounded by others, she kept herself apart. As if struck from the same quarry as the red marble surrounding him, he remained absolutely still in his supreme effort to hear the Garnier's future diva. Dufort, the chorus master stopped them mid-measure with a slash of his arm, and began berating them. Erik merely smiled. _Yes, quite. Not up to snuff, are they? __Stop trying to pull them along- you're simply dragging the notes out of them. They don't feel __La cloche a sonne__ in the least. __But __la __petite __jeune fille__? Worth the whole lot. _Exuberantly, and with new purpose, he turned and strode away.

* * *

Christine observed the others in the chorus as they left for lunch. She had no money with which to join them, but she knew where she could get a cup of hot tea, for Sorelli very often had a pot sent from the kitchens, and so she found her steps turning for Louise's dressing room. Of all the people she had met so far in the opera house, the prima ballerina had been the kindest, and her room was always filled with chatter and noise of which Christine tried very hard to join. She was by nature reserved, and Mamma Valerius often commented on it, saying she was much too quiet for a young girl on the threshold of life. To Christine, eighteen was not so very young for a life filled with such grief. Losing her mother when she was a child of four, and her beloved papa only a year ago, she neither felt young or happy- merely _there_. She at times thought she was existing in a bubble that prevented her from engaging her life to the fullest, separated from the rest of humanity by sorrow and lassitude. Able to eat, sleep and function on one level, she nevertheless felt insulated from the truest sense of living- merely going through the motions of it.

She reached Sorelli's door backstage and tapped lightly. The older woman was often in her dressing room to eat her lunch, preferring that instead of joining the others. Lately though, she seemed preoccupied and sad, with shadows beneath her eyes and an abstracted air about her. All pensive moods of which Christine was more than familiar. After a minute, she came to the conclusion that Louise wasn't in her dressing room and turned away.

Feeling a little sad herself, her steps unconsciously took her back to the tiny dressing room near the end of the corridor she shared with three other girls. Often she would have to suffer through the nasty looks flung her way from La Carlotta as she exited her room at the very end of the hallway. At those times, Christine simply dropped her head and mumbled a greeting to the diva and continued on her way. Normally she would be exploring the opera house which she did most days- it was beautiful and elegant and it gave her something to do while the others in the chorus left for the streets of Paris for an hour of lunch or shopping.

She entered the dressing room and walked to the long vanity table and sat down in one of the plain wooden chairs. Listlessly, she studied her reflection in the tarnished mirror. "Papa." she whispered brokenly. "I miss you so very much. I'm not...I'm not strong. I can't push myself to care about anything anymore- " and she dropped her head in her hands, feeling abandoned and unloved. Her shoulders shook with anguished sobs, remembering her father and his love of life and music. Would that she was more like him. Life to her was merely exhausting and held no real joy.

"Why the tears, child?"

The other worldly voice was a viable force in the small room, and her head snapped up in surprise at the heavenly tones. She said nothing, but shook her head in negation, uneasy at the very thought of hearing voices that were not there. That was a sure sign of brain instability. Mamma often talked to Professor Valerius, and as far as Christine was concerned, the professor had never answered the old lady back.

"I didn't hear anything," she whispered. "I really did not."

There came a rich masculine chuckle at her words, and it came from a different part of the room. "You most certainly did, I assure you. Calm yourself, and kindly answer my question."

Christine twisted around in the chair, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Curiously, she wasn't afraid- at least she didn't think so. She inhaled deeply, letting it out slowly as she had been taught at the Conservatoire. "I am crying for my father. I-I miss him."

Erik felt a moment's unease at what he was doing, but nevertheless continued the charade. Too much was at stake. "He is no longer...with us?"

She stared at the wall where the Voice had just issued in its angelic tones. She felt as though she were moving in a dreamscape where anything was possible. Sitting up a little straighter, she continued this bizarre conversation. "He died a year ago and left me alone, except for Mamma Valerius. S-She and her late husband were friends of my father."

"You have no other relatives?"

"No."

"What makes you so sad? Surely you have had enough time to mourn for your father? I am certain he would have wanted you to go on with your life," the Voice said gently.

She nearly started crying again at the sympathy the Voice exuded. Sympathy for her. "Yes, of course, but he wanted so much for me, and I'm afraid I have let him down. I didn't do so well at the Conservatoire with my singing, and I am lucky they gave me a chance here in the chorus, because I'm not very good. Papa said my voice was beautiful, but he must have been wrong."

"You doubt your father's love?"

"Doubt his love for me? Oh no, no. My father was Gustaf Daae, the great violinist! I _never _doubted his love," she retorted with a trace of arrogance. "He was also a marvelous story teller, and told tales of the Angel of Music. I heard the story many times sitting at his knee, and he said I was one of the lucky children with a gift that the angel would bequeath to _me._" Christine hung her head and sighed. "It has not happened." she said softly. She glanced up, her blue eyes wide, the tears still drying on her cheeks, and looked round the room, more and more curious about the disembodied voice keeping her company. She turned the questioning back on her invisible visitor. "_Who_ are you?"

Erik was busy contemplating the Angel of Music. He wasn't all that familiar with the entity, but he had a little knowledge of Swedish tales, and at least had read a smattering of this one in particular. The angel would pay a visit to those children who were deemed worthy of its time and effort. Not considering too closely why he did it, and feeling only a little shame he replied, "Why, Papa Daae sends his love and blessings to you, my child." As Louise had always contended, he was an adherent of the melodramatic, and paused for greater effect, for he was slipping into heavenly shoes.

"I am the Angel of Music."

* * *

**Yep- doing that teaching thing through the walls- again. Just imagine class with a teacher you never saw, but who never missed what went on. Texting in _his _classroom? Kiss your phone goodbye. And who could you throw those paper wads at if you can't even see him? That is, if you _wanted _to throw anything at the scary looking dude with the crazy weird eyes ;) And don't sit there looking so innocent! Yes, I mean _you_, sitting there in front of your computer and smirking. I _know _you threw an occasional paper wad at your poor unsuspecting teacher's back. Wouldn't try that with Mr. Erik, would you?**


	22. Chapter 22

G_entlemen- Good afternoon._

_ May I make known to you a few items which need your attention forthwith. First- the timpani section. Felt core on the mallet heads is a much more satisfying roll of sound than that of the wooden variety. In this I heartily agree with Berlioz. Why do you allow sub-standard instruments to continue punishing our ears?_

_ Secondly, messieurs- Taillier of the corps de ballet needs to work on her technique, for her ballon leaves much to be desired._

_ Third- I have a notion as to the placement of singers in the next presentation of Don Carlos. I am quite certain La Carlotta will have the primary role- no surprises there, I'm sure, but for the part of the princess, I propose Christine Daae. I am informed that she has received lessons from a premier voice teacher and has vastly improved beyond measure. It would be foolish not to use the girl where she and the House will benefit the most._

_ Last, but not the least of it- may I suggest new pointe shoes for La Sorelli? Obviously her present ones are much too large for her feet, for graceful is not the term I would use to describe her dancing. More practice would benefit your principal ballerina, and a little less socializing with certain patrons of this opera house would, I think be in order. This is, after all, a business venture. By the same token, La Sorelli needs to be reminded she is not dancing in a graveyard. Why does she frown so much? Perhaps she should cultivate better acquaintances who will provide her with smiles, for apparently le comte cannot._

_ Your most humble and ob't servant,_

_ O. G._

* * *

The company had begun rehearsals for Don Carlos, and most were startled, if not resentful, when after a mere two months, the young soprano, Christine Daae was promoted from the chorus to a singular role in the opera. To say she hadn't improved would be wrong, but there were others in the chorus who could have moved into that role just as well, for they had been there longer than the Swedish girl and probably deserved it more. Louise was happy for the young woman, but just as surprised as everyone else- and a bit disturbed.

One afternoon, a week into rehearsals, the usual crowd of ballet rats were present in Sorelli's dressing room. The young singer was there as well, and getting teased by the other girls. For the most part, she had become used to it, and even on occasion would give as good as she got. While some of the corps de ballet sat on the sofa chattering away in their petty squabbles, Christine talked with Sorelli. She appeared calm and confident compared to the quiet young woman who first started at the Garnier two months ago.

"You must be very happy stepping out of the chorus in the manner that you have. You sounded wonderful this morning," and to Louise's untrained ears she had. "The rumor going round is that you have a great and wonderful teacher."

"Yes, he is both of those things. I have learned more from him in just two months, compared to an entire year at the Conservatoire."

"What is his name?" The question was innocent enough, but the younger woman's face took on a veil of secrecy that made Sorelli wonder, and even more so at the answer.

"I don't know," and she looked with embarrassment at Louise. "H-He never told me his name."

"What do you call him then?"

"Nothing."

Louise looked at the girl in puzzlement. "Perhaps I've seen him about in the opera house. What does he look like?"

"I have never seen his face," and she lowered her voice as she glanced over at Filene Mapassant and Meg Giry. "I take my lessons in our dressing room after the others have left for the day. He...he speaks to me through the...through the wall." She watched the color drain out of Sorelli's face and misconstrued it. "I'm _not_ hearing things! I shouldn't have said anything about h-him. Please don't tell anyone, I beg you!"

Louise, feeling as though she had been kicked in the stomach, stared at Christine in dismay. "How can E- I mean, how can someone teach through a wall?"

"Just as he did when I first heard him in our dressing room," she said in a small voice. "He spoke to me then. Louise...he was sent by my father." She looked at the older woman with imploring eyes. "You won't laugh, will you?" She chanced another look at the two girls and lowered her voice to a near whisper, "He is the Angel of Music."

"Angel? Oh no, Christine. It can't be."

She shook her blonde head. "No, you are wrong. If you could only hear him, you would understand- he has the voice of an angel!"

"That is the _last_ thing I would call that devil," Sorelli muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"I...what I meant was... I can't imagine someone teaching through a wall. It's just not done." _Except in the Phantom's world._

"Yes, I too thought it very strange at first. I told myself that I was hearing things," and she laughed uneasily, "but that would mean I was going crazy, wouldn't it? H-He's a marvelous teacher, Louise. Only look...I have an actual role to perform!" Her smile faded and was replaced with a look of annoyance. "I seem to have angered a few people because of it- mostly Carlotta and her minions."

"Yes, well it doesn't take much for that to happen." She leaned forward and watched Christine's face closely. "This _angel. _I'm sure he has a magnificent voice. I've always thought they would. Angels, I mean."

Christine's delicate face lit up with pleasure. "Oh, Louise! You have no idea!" but Sorelli was almost certain she knew _exactly _what the angel sounded like. "It's a beautiful voice- so masculine and rich! The power of it! Why, I get goosebumps just listening to him, err- _it_." She giggled a little. "I don't know what to call an angel."

_Oh, I do. Especially this one in particular. _"Christine...you don't think someone from the Garnier is playing an elaborate prank on you?"

"Do I sing as though it is merely a prank?"

Louise sighed in defeat. "No, you do not. It's obvious your angel is gifted as a teacher." She had an inspiration. "Might I sit in on a practice of yours, do you think? I would stay very quiet and just listen."

Christine chewed at her lip in thought. "Well, I don't see why not. He never said I mustn't tell anyone. He even told me I could if I wished, but cautioned me against it, or I may be ridiculed or...or taken to Charenton and locked up in a padded cell. I'm _not _insane and I am not hearing things. Come to my dressing room tonight at half past six. Only promise me you will be quiet and not speak while we have our lesson. All right?" She waited impatiently for Sorelli to agree.

"Of course. I promise to remain absolutely quiet." _I can't promise what I'll say afterward_. It was quite possible he wouldn't even show up tonight, but if she knew Erik at all, he would not be thanking her for interfering.

* * *

Louise sat tucked away in a corner of the tiny dressing room, her anticipation strangely focused on hearing Erik's sublime tones spoken through the wall. Christine kept sending nervous glances her way as she sat at the vanity, the minutes until seven dragging by interminably. When the appointed hour came and went, the young soprano stood up and approached the wall hesitantly.

Putting a hand flat against the white painted surface, she called timidly, "Angel? Are you there?" She paused listening, and when it remained silent, she turned and gave Sorelli a fuming glance. Slowly she walked back to the dressing table and sat down, trying not to fidget. By seven-thirty, she could stand it no longer, and leaped to her feet in agitation.

"He's not coming! He knew you were here all along. And why wouldn't he? He's not mortal like us!" She rung her hands in dismay and flung herself down in the chair. "He must be so angry with me! I-I should never have gone along with this." Despondent tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. "He'll find someone else to teach now, and I'll never sing the way my father wished."

Sorelli had heard enough. She stood up from her cramped corner and stretched the kinks out. "It would be a strange angel indeed to show such a human emotion as anger. Trust me- you won't get rid of him so quickly, I assure you. He can be very tenacious."

She looked up at Louise, a frown creasing her forehead. "How would you know?"

She put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "I don't really. But aren't messengers of God supposed to aid we mortals? Don't worry. He probably got called to Heaven." She turned at the door. "And if he didn't, I think I might just help him get there myself."

"Why?"

Her smile was chilly as she looked at the girl. "Just some wishful thinking. Go on home now. You'll see- by tomorrow your angel will be back and in fine form." That of a very skilled charlatan with a handy bag of tricks.

Saying good night, she pulled the door closed gently, and wondered how she could arrange to meet her one-time friend for a little heavenly tete-a-tete.

* * *

She decided to go through Madame Giry, the box keeper and Meg's mother. She cornered her the next afternoon as the short, sallow faced woman flitted through Box Five, polishing and brushing in her no nonsense way, The ruby red velvet of the plush chairs and hangings were cleaned regularly to keep them free of dust, and it could be said that Mother Giry took pride in her work. The dark haired, squat woman straightened up and grinned at Louise, showing the gaps in her front teeth.

"How may I help you, mam'selle?"

"Can you give Erik a message from me?"

"Erik?"

"The gentleman who occupies this very box, madame."

"You mean the ghost?"

"Yes, him," Louise replied, rolling her eyes when she heard the note of awe in the woman's voice. She was a little nonplussed that Madame Giry wished to continue the charade.

"He laughed with you. The ghost was happy," she said with a satisfied nod of her head.

Again Sorelli found Madame Giry to be odd in her need to continue a falsehood. "When, madame?" She gestured to the box at large. "Do you mean the picnic supper Er...I mean, the _ghost_ and I had months ago?"

The older woman grinned again and bobbed her head emphatically. "Yes, yes, mam'selle." Then she changed subjects so rapidly, Louise could only blink. "My Marguerite...she is a good girl?"

"Why, of course." She held out her note for Erik. "Madame, will you see that he gets this? It's important, I assure you. I will come by tomorrow morning for his answer. All right?"

The round little woman looked up at the ballerina and vigorously nodded again. "He will get it, have no fear. He got my Meg a place in the corps de ballet. Did you know this?"

"No, I didn't," Sorelli said gently. "You must be very proud."

"Oh, yes, yes. He is going to make Marguerite an empress someday. He told me so. An empress!"

Louise held in the snort with difficulty, snidely thinking that the man must be approaching exhaustion. Surely wearing the white robes and halo of an angel, and having to exchange them regularly for the spectral garments of the opera ghost was a full-time endeavor- even for Erik. And now clearly, he had assumed another role... match-making. He would have to take the time from his busy schedule to find Meg an emperor. She had forgotten to ask Christine if there had been celestial melodies during these lessons, for she wouldn't put it past her erstwhile friend to come up with some heavenly harp music. All in a day's work apparently.

Louise had much food for thought, but she put it aside to concentrate on her upcoming discussion with the Angel of Music. It should be very interesting indeed.

* * *

_Eight o'clock tonight. Box Five_

The note was handed to her by Madame Giry after waiting for two days. The words were scrawled across the page as though written by the hand of a small child, in the red ink he had always favored.

Louise had forced herself to be patient. At least he had agreed to meet with her, and now she sat in one of the plush chairs in _his _box, hands folded demurely in her lap. She had been there for a half an hour, inwardly seething, and she well knew he was playing with her and enjoying himself. Since the attack on Estelle, he considered Louise to be the enemy, and in a way he was right. Why had she allowed her thoughts to go in that direction, knowing in her heart that Erik could never have been so brutal as to stalk women in the way that had been done? She had tried to ignore the tiny voice inside, telling her to find him and make amends before more time passed, but stubbornly she refused to listen. Admitting her own culpability in this, raised other questions, and some painted her in a most unflattering light, the worst being the most obvious. Was she predisposed like so many others were, to consider him capable of heinous deeds simply because of his appearance?

The Comte de Chagny would often take her to dine at the Au Rocher de Cancale, the very same restaurant he had sent her to during the dark days of the war. To be sitting beneath the vaulted gold tile ceiling wearing satin and lace, eating steak au poivre served on delicate old china, always caused a shift in perspective that for a mere second left her disoriented. She was no longer a homeless orphan standing outside the kitchen door in her shabby dress. Automatically her mind would return to the cellars and the day that Erik came back from the dungeon cell- how happy she had been that he was alive. She would chide herself then- it's not possible to miss those days of dread and uncertainty. Was it? She was La Sorelli, premier ballerina of the world's most magnificent opera house. Shaking her head and willing away those images burned forever in her memories, she would sit across the table from Philippe and find herself studying his handsome face. She had wondered fleetingly if she could have accused _him _of the very same things with which she had accused Erik? That there had been some odd coincidences, really had no place in her thinking. She wouldn't have considered this to be the work of the Phantom except for his ruined face and sinister air. Louise had hurt him badly by her unfaithfulness and sent him away, perhaps for good, and the very idea of never having his company again was impossibly hard to swallow.

"You wished to speak with me?"

She started and sat up in the seat, staring into the shadowy corners. She tried for a light, teasing tone, having no wish for Erik to consider this a confrontation. "Which are you today? Ghost or angel?"

He stepped out from a marble pillar, and Louise's mouth dropped open. "Which do you prefer?" he said in a friendly tone, and she relaxed a little, never realizing how tense she'd been while waiting for him.

"I prefer Erik. Is he in there?"

"For you? Yes."

They sized one another up, each greedily surveying the other, both searching for that something they had lost two months ago. Sorelli studied him, noting his neat, black swallowtail suit, maroon waistcoat and black cravat. He was always handsomely dressed; as a man of means would attire himself, but that wasn't the only thing he put on every morning, and she should have remembered it. Erik always clothed himself in dignity, wrapping it around himself like the finest of linens or softest of broadcloth. The few times she had seen him without it, had led to questionable behavior, and he had scrabbled and clawed his way back to it. His dignity was a shield of sorts, protecting him from descending for the most part, into the monster that others proclaimed him to be. He was no such thing. And too late, she had forgotten the quiet gentleman residing behind the frightening exterior.

She flicked a hand at the column where he had materialized. "Clever."

He turned and glanced behind him. "I needed a way to enter and exit my box without the need to pass through a mob of people to do it. Like it?"

"Mm." She looked him over carefully. "How are you?" she asked softly.

"Tolerable, Sorelli." He halted in front of her, hands behind his back and head tilted. "_You _however seem a trifle weary. Too many forays into the beau monde lately?"

She could feel the flush spreading across her cheeks, and resented him for speaking to her in such a snide manner. His question answered one of hers though, and in some odd way she felt heartened by it. He was watching her closely, just as he always had.

"Not as many as you might think, and not always at my instigation," she replied stiffly. Which was true. Debienne and Poligny would still coerce her, and to some extent Carlotta as well, to be goodwill ambassadors for the Garnier. That many of these affairs were on the arm of Philippe de Chagny, would not have escaped Erik's notice. "Attending the theatre is not enough for some of the haute monde in this city. They wish to hobnob with its performers as well."

"What you would really like to say, is that they wish to look down their patrician noses at you, and feel themselves to be far superior to a mere lady of the stage." He uttered this in a bored tone and sat down in the seat beside Louise.

She always tried to separate the scents that she associated with her ex-friend. Ink was one, since he nearly always used it, and often wore it splattered across his fingers and pristine cuffs. She had become used to the smell of pungent herbs on his clothes- valerian root's earthy scent, and lemon balm with its citrus bite. The pine scent of rosemary and the winter cleanness of mint were there, but something new had been added as she delicately sniffed the air, finding a hint of sandalwood- absolutely heavenly, and she nearly smiled. It suited his role as the Angel of Music.

She felt an odd comfort sitting beside him and smelling his familiar scent while they talked. "No, that isn't what I wanted to say. Stop putting words in my mouth."

"Heaven forbid that," he muttered.

There was that word again. It always came back around to Erik's brand new angelic image. Heavenly. She never considered that designation and his name in the same sentence before. She took a fortifying breath and turned her body sideways to face him. "What are your intentions with Christine Daae?"

He stared at her a moment longer before comfortably stretching his legs out in front of him, and folding his hands in his lap. He leveled those sharp amber eyes on her and looked for all the world as though he were settling in for a cozy chat. "My, my, but you don't believe in idle talk, do you?" He shrugged. "Neither do I. It is really none of your business. Sticking that curious little nose of yours into my affairs isn't very wise, but I enjoyed immensely the sight of you curled up in that musty corner in Christine's dressing room. Fools step in where angels fear to tread. Ever hear that, Louise? What gives you the right to question me _or_ my intentions?"

"The right of someone concerned for another's well-being. Not to mention your penchant for sticking _your _nose-" she ground to a halt, feeling a little sheepish, but oddly, the gleam in his eyes was one of amusement, and undeterred, she continued, "You enjoy dissecting my life, Erik. Why is yours so sacrosanct?"

"Because it is." One corner of his mouth twitched into his version of a smile. "Just for the record, you understand- not _my _well-being, I trust?"

She snorted in disbelief. "There is no one more capable than you, and you know it. No. I'm concerned with the charade you're perpetrating on the girl. Charenton, Erik? You threatened her with the insane asylum if she spoke of this to anyone?"

He had the grace to drop his gaze from hers, and she was grimly amused when his teeth made an appearance and chewed at his lower lip."I meant nothing by it, except for her to use caution speaking of our arrangement," he said gruffly. "Christine doesn't feel threatened by me in any way. In fact, she finds me to be quite awe-inspiring."

"Oh? And I'm sure it's an added bonus that she's not only in awe of you, but also very pretty."

"Jealous, Sorelli?"

"Not even a little," she sniffed disdainfully.

He pursed his thin lips. "Of course, of course. Naturally, it is merely your concern for a fellow sister that leads you to seek me out." His eyes watched her closely for a reaction- any reaction at all. He sighed wearily when he saw none. "You may rest assured that I mean Christine no harm, Louise."

_That's right, friend. Your halo is a little crooked at the moment, so shove it upright before it topples completely. _"Then come out and stop pretending to be something you are not! Be honest with her. This game you are playing will not end well. I-I have been wanting to tell you this, but you're not an easy man to find at the moment."

He barked a bitter laugh and tilted his head, appraising her with interest. "Miss me, do you?" He raised a hand when she started to respond, her eyes sparkling dangerously. "No, don't answer that. I know beyond a shadow, that you do not. You have your comte to keep you company now. You have forgotten your poor Erik."

She managed to keep her temper, but only just. A part of Louise wanted to confess that she did miss him; missed him with a sharp ache that she pretended not to feel. She was fairly certain though, that any admission from her would be used against her, for Erik was just low enough to do it. With that in mind, she blustered her way through the conversation, _confrontation? _to get to the heart of the matter.

"The girl is still mourning her father. Have you used that knowledge against her? If you have, it is dishonest and heartless."

"By helping her to achieve greatness? Her voice even untrained is a gift, Louise. Those fools at the Conservatoire had no idea of the raw talent she possessed while she was there. The same can be said for the dullards running _this _establishment. I heard that lovely instrument the first time I laid eyes on her. I will bring all that latent power to the fore, and fulfill her destiny. If that is dishonest and cruel, then may we all die from my machinations. She was nothing and I will lift her from that and give her the world!"

To see his passion so blatantly revealed to her, made Louise turn away. His eyes held fire when he spoke of the girl, and later in the safety of her own room she would analyze the welter of emotions that had leaped to the fore while seeing such reverence in him for another woman.

He searched her face, content to be sitting beside her again, but unbidden, he recalled _why_ he was angry with her; she had believed him to be capable of stalking and killing women for his own base use. "Will you give me away?" he coolly asked her.

She refused to answer that, instead saying, "If she is as good as you imply, then confront her and stop playing games. Christine really believes you are an angel. This is wrong and you know it. She is eighteen years old, and should no longer think celestial beings capable of speaking through walls!"

He leaned back in his seat and eyed her carefully. "Shouldn't, Sorelli? And why ever not? Didn't you tell me years ago that I should have beliefs in something other than my own mortal existence? Surely you are quite two-faced to allow it for one and not the other," he said easily.

He was baiting her and she knew it, but it didn't make the fact any more palatable. It would seem he had no intention of changing anything he was doing. Especially since she was the one asking him to do it.

"I like Christine. But there is something fragile about her and very breakable. Making her believe in something that isn't there will only cause harm. There may be repercussions from it of which you are not even aware." She leaned toward him and touched his arm. He looked down at her fingers lying across the sleeve of his coat, and before she could withdraw her hand, he placed his over it. He met her gaze, and at the softening of those golden eyes, her pulse rate sped up.

"Your little flock of dancing girls wasn't enough for you, I daresay," he said with grudging affection. "You had to adopt an extra one, didn't you?"

She shrugged. "I know what it's like to be a young girl without family. It can be one of the loneliest feelings in the world."

"I remember a time when _I_ was your family," he said in a low voice, finding it difficult to stay angry with her.

His fingers were squeezing hers gently, and she turned her hand palm up and threaded their fingers together. His sigh was heartfelt, and before she could stop him, he raised her hand to his cool lips and kissed it lightly. His look was curiously tender and she held her breath. "_Have _you missed me, Louise?"

"What? Miss the rogue who proclaimed he never wished to see me again?" but inadvertently, her grip tightened on his.

"Yes, that one. You know I never meant it, don't you?"

"You seemed quite clear to me at the time," but looking into his eyes was easing something tightly wound in her chest, and a warm pooling of heat had begun in her belly.

"Leave him," he said softly. "He will never marry you."

Louise, caught off guard by his words, yanked her hand back and stood up. "Always showering me with advice, aren't you? And it always comes back to Philippe. But when I ask you to consider _your _actions, you simply pretend it is of no consequence." This had been a mistake, but she tried one last time. "Make yourself known to Christine before this goes any further. She realizes you're a wonderful teacher and she'll want to continue."

He had also stood up, but didn't make a move toward her. "I cannot take that chance, Louise. She is very close to becoming a true diva with a little more work. I intend to see that she gets the lead role over Carlotta in the next production. It will be Faust, and the role of Marguerite is well suited to her voice. I can't jeopardize her seeing me before then." His eyes pleaded with her to understand. "Can't _you_ see that?"

They both stiffened when they heard voices on the other side of the door. "I told you there is someone in there! Why are you so obtuse?" Arthur Debienne said in aggravation.

Erik held a finger to his lips.

"I'm not being obtuse so much as you are hearing things! You get that way every time he sends us an extortion note," Poligny replied irritably.

Louise looked silently at the masked man, and with one last compelling glance at her, he went back to the column and opened it, slipping inside. It was a clever use of trompe l'oeil, same as the painted House curtain, and looked for all the world like a marble pillar, when in actuality it was made of wood and hid a very narrow set of stairs. His eyes glowed from the dim light inside the column and winked out just as the door to the box opened and Debienne poked his head through it.

"Who's in here?" He was surprised when his eyes fell on Sorelli standing alone near the crimson railing. "Why, mam'selle. What are you doing in here," and he looked curiously around seeing no one else, "all alone?"

She looked past him and pensively stared at the marble column. "Yes. All by myself."

* * *

**Ghost, angel, match-maker- and a few other pursuits he probably doesn't want us to dwell on. The man wears many hats. Myself, I really can't picture Erik in a halo- know what I mean? Or wearing flowing white robes and cool leather sandals :) Nope, can't see it. Now, little horns sprouting out of his head- yeah, _those_ I can see.**


	23. Chapter 23

"I'm s-sorry, angel. I'm just a little tired." She glanced up at the wall, never certain where to look, knowing that he had listened closely and found her to be lacking. "Forgive me, but it's just that we've gone over this measure again and again. I would like a drink of water and a...a short rest, if you don't mind."

"It's been a mere thirty minutes since your last request to stop," Erik responded, only just managing to keep the impatience out of his voice. "Your debut is in less than two weeks. Don't you want it to be perfect for the gala?"

Christine shook her blonde head, nervously twisting her fingers together. "I don't think I can do much more than I'm doing now. It's not you! Oh no, it's me. I've given all I can."

He ground his teeth in vexation. You can do more, silly chit, but the words never left his mouth. Instead he modulated his tones to seraphic, as he always strove to do with her, keeping well away from the frustration and impatience which occasionally tried to seep through during their lessons. Angels didn't shout in anger or pull at their hair in frustration, and he could ill afford to lose more of it anyway. "It is in you, but you must reach for it! _Feel _it in your heart- in your very bones, child." He sighed in exasperation. Sorelli was in the right of it. He must never lose his temper with her. The girl was like spun glass, delicate and breakable. "Take a few minutes and collect yourself then."

He slumped against the wall of the closet next door to Christine's dressing room. This is where he conducted the lessons, the hidden vents in the walls allowing sound to amplify and travel around the room, and giving him a narrow view of her as she stood in the spot he had designated for her as he honed and shaped that incredible gift of hers. Working with her breathing and posture through the wall left a lot to be desired, but the arrangement had been satisfactory thus far.

Aside from the fact that he was deceiving her in a dastardly fashion, he felt that in the end it would all be worth it. She need never know of his duplicity. The thought of his deception gave him pause, but the girl was awed by his angelic persona and spoke always in a softly deferential tone, especially after he had corrected her pronunciation of the lyrics in the aria by singing it for her. Her eyes had actually filled with tears from his mellifluent voice, and he had enjoyed himself. He quite liked her warm veneration. He knew his voice was his one saving grace, but in most cases, it did little to garner acceptance from his fellow men. He didn't see Christine as being any different, and the knowledge that she wouldn't be able to tolerate him if she knew the terrible reality of her teacher, sunk his spirits from heavenly heights to hellish lows.

Louise...now, she was altogether different. She had never revered him, he thought glumly. He supposed it was respect which she had offered him when she returned to Paris- that and her friendship. She had known the horror of his face and still suffered his presence, but she had never put him on a pedestal. His brow wrinkled in a frown. Always treating him just like...

-any other man.

He straightened up as the knowledge sped straight to his heart. She had. It was the one thing he had always craved- to be considered normal. His epiphany resonated through him with the force of a thunderclap, but more than that if he were being honest. She had been his dear friend- his _only _friend. As he contemplated what that meant to him, his mouth thinned to a harsh line. But her affection had been proven false, although it didn't change his feelings for her in the least, more's the pity. He had tried to put her from his mind, deeply hurt by her accusations, but he still found himself watching for her every single day, his mood brightening considerably as his eyes followed her lithesome form around the stage. He missed her, and their brief meeting in Box Five left him wanting more. He uttered a weary sigh followed by a soft curse.

"Angel? Are you all right?" Christine's concerned voice forced broke rudely into his thoughts, forcing his attention back into the room where it belonged.

"Yes, of course, my child. Are you ready to continue now?" _Almost gave yourself away, didn't you? Stop thinking of earthly matters and put yourself back in those __fluffy white__ clouds, old man._

"Yes."

As Christine sang, his ears were attuned to her articulation and transition points, occasionally interrupting her for a correction. He had this young woman to prepare for her greatest role- introducing the new diva to Parisian society. She would supplant the croaking Carlotta and become the true voice of the Garnier. Her instrument had untold power that only needed to be coaxed into being- and he wanted to be the one to do it. But she was a broken little thing, never putting herself into the music. Her love for her father, instead of lifting her spirit up and allowing her to do great things, had crippled the girl, leaving her with no true happiness- rudderless. The only thing driving her now was the wish to be what her father always wanted- nothing more, and that would have to be enough. But as he listened to her, he remembered what she had asked him only yesterday. Their lesson had just begun, and she had the audacity to interrupt him.

"Will I ever see you?"

Erik was dumbfounded by her question. See him? For what reason? He was an angel from Heaven, damn it! In his best stentorian tones, he answered her. "I am not of the _earthly _plane, child. My state of being is not meant for human eyes, for yours would surely wither in their sockets at the sight of my...my celestial form. Continue the lesson, if you please."

Today, as she sang Marguerite's aria from Faust, he once again found himself pondering her question. She wanted to meet her angel, did she? If there was a way to teach her without a wall between them and access to a piano, it would vastly improve their sessions. But how to successfully go from Angel of Music to lowly and deformed human without frightening the girl so badly she never attended another lesson? After careful consideration, he knew the place to start would have to be Carlotta's dressing room at the end of the hall. The mirror in that room led directly to his home, a much better place to practice with the piano, instead of relying on his violin for Christine's lessons.

She ran through the rest of her aria, and at last looked up at the wall, pleased with the results. "Better, angel?" and heard no heavenly reply.

Waiting impatiently, Christine glanced around the room, wondering if the angel had become so tired of her feeble attempts, he had simply left her. A little louder, and with a hint of desperation, "Angel? Are you _there_? Was that any better?"

Erik, deep in thought, jerked his head up and stared at her. "What? Oh. Yes. I suppose..." he said absently, one finger stroking his upper lip. He observed the sudden listless droop of her shoulders, and quickly added, "Only a little breathy at the finish, Christine. Projection is of the utmost importance if you are to be heard above a fully engaged orchestra. You must work more on your control as I have shown you, but you have done well enough for today, child. This lesson is concluded."

She sighed in relief at his words. Coming from him, it was high praise. He would be leaving now; going wherever it was that angels congregated. For a split second, her mind tried to get her to heed the voice of reason, telling her what a dupe she was for trusting in such things. But the part of her heritage that believed in trolls and water sprites playing their violins to lure the unwary onto the thick winter ice, shut down that voice with a vengeance. Her desperate longing to be closer to her father in any way that she could, forced logic out, refusing to allow it to stay around long enough to call her a fool.

"But where are you going? Our...our lesson isn't finished yet," and she bit her lip to think she was asking the divine to divulge his movements to a mere human.

"It is for now. I have-" a part of Erik felt a trace of shame for taking advantage of the girl, but he brutally murdered it." I have been called to Heaven and must leave at once." He rolled his eyes at such nonsense, but he needed to put into place the things which would get her closer to his home. He had a letter to write.

* * *

_Messieurs- Good morning._

_ May I first congratulate the both of you on your imminent retirement? I am certain you will do well with any future endeavors that you will take up._

_ Before you leave us and turn the reins of this establishment over to your worthy successors, may I request a boon? La Carlotta needs to be removed from her dressing room and settled __in__to__ a new one. Perhaps th__e __lovely corner room only recently papered and carpeted in that very becoming __shade of__ red? She will love it, I am sure. Her old room is much too drafty for her aging instrument to endure, and should, on my advice, be taken over by Christine Daae. __She has been proving herself to you these past weeks, and has done very well, I think. She should not be lumped in any longer with the rest of the chorus._

_ I look forward to your upcoming dinner party with much eagerness, and I am told that La Sorelli is preparing a speech in your honor. Speaking of which- have you noticed your pri__n__cipal dancer lately, gentlemen? Why do her bourees appear more like she is stomping on cockroaches than actual dancing? She seems to be lost in the impossible fantasy of becoming the Co__unt__ess de Chagny. Tut tut, sirs. We all realize that this is a pipe-dream. Sorelli's thoughts should be on her pas de deux, not on her illusive bride groom._

_I pray you pass on this critique to the lady in question, so she may see how others view her abilities, especially those who once considered her talents exceptional._

_ Believe me to be, your humble servant,_

_ O.G._

"Well, if he thinks for one moment that I am moved by any of this, he is most certainly the lunatic he shows himself to be!" Debienne shouted. He crumpled up the note as he always did, as though he were crushing the ghost, and flung it in a corner of the office.

Claude Poligny ran a hand carelessly through his hair, standing it on end. "Hell! Just do what he says, for God's sake! Let's at least leave this place with our dignity intact. Do you really want to scare off the new managers, Arthur?"

"Does it matter? The opera house will soon be in their hands and out of ours. I certainly don't want to give this _pain _in our collective asses any more leeway than he's already had! You however, may do as you wish." He paused and stared hard at Poligny, then went over and picked up the crumpled note, opening it and smoothing it out. '_She dances as though __she were stomping on cockroaches.__' _He glanced up at the other man with a puzzled air. "Why is he always critiquing Louise Sorelli? You know yourself as well as I, that she is in top form, and a huge draw for the box office. So why does he constantly pick on her _and _mention de Chagny in such a disparaging manner?"

Debienne shrugged in disinterest. "Again. What does it matter? He has something to say about everything, and I'm heartily sick of it."

"Fine, fine, but I think I'll pay a visit to La Sorelli this afternoon. I have a few questions for her, and the answers might be interesting."

* * *

_Roof. Nine o'clock tonight. Do __not__ be late._

She snorted in disgust. Of all places to meet, he chooses the very top of the Garnier. She was leaning against the base of Pegasus, the breeze light for an October evening. Louise nevertheless pulled her shawl tighter around her body and gazed at the cold, distant stars in the night sky. Of a sudden, she was reminded of another night long ago, seated near a campfire and listening to Erik's silky tones telling her a story about love and jealousy. Callisto and her son Arcus. She smiled to think of those days again; looking back, they almost seemed innocent, although she knew they were anything but that.

She sighed as she recalled the visit she had from Claude Poligny that afternoon. She was on her lunch break working on the speech she was to give at the retirement dinner for the two managers after the gala performance. She was taking it very seriously, and meant to make it words to remember. All of the rats had been evicted the moment the noise level went up in her room, and she had received quite a few dirty looks as they trooped out the door.

"And do _not_ slam it!" she warned, which Filene did just to be spiteful. On the heels of their departure, Poligny passed the trio of dancers, as he approached the prima ballerina's door. Edith paused to give him fair warning.

"Be very careful, monsieur. She is in a foul mood today," and looked at Filene and stabbed a reproachful finger in her direction. "This one drove her to it!" and Filene gave her a tiny push as they scurried down the gas-lit hallway.

Shaking his head at them in perplexity, he tapped on the door and leaned inside. "Pardonne. May I come in?"

Louise tossed her pen down, and sighed in resignation as she glanced up at him irritably. "Well, why ever not? You're the only one who hasn't been! Have a seat, monsieur, _I'm_ not doing anything at the moment."

He sank into a chair and smiled bracingly. "Yes, you are, but I won't keep you long, dear lady," and pulled from his pocket the crumpled letter and handed it to her. "The ghost takes quite an interest in you, Louise. This isn't the first missive mentioning your dancing abilities or lack thereof. Would you know why that is?"

She spread it open on her lap and read the contents, her face darkening at the author's caustic words about her. Inwardly she seethed at his childish spite, but when she glanced up at the manager, she schooled her features into a semblance of mild interest. "It's not very flattering, is it? I have no idea why he has singled out my performance, monsieur. I always give my very best, I assure you."

"Upon my word! You don't think we agree with this drivel? We, meaning Arthur and myself, have had all confidence in your abilities, as will the incoming managers. Have no fear of that." He looked at the paper clutched tightly in her fist and gestured to it. "Do you recognize the writing? Looks like a child wrote it- very odd, to say the least."

_You have no idea._ But_ s_he looked him in the eye and said grimly, "No, I do not. But I wish I did. I would love to tell him what I think of him and his humor." She fluttered the letter at him. "May I keep this? It will stop me from getting a swelled head like some in this company, if I remind myself now and then what...what _others _think of my dancing."

And now here she sat yet again, waiting for her poison pen friend. She jumped when she heard a deep chuckle and cursed, "Blast you, Erik! Must you always sneak up on me?"

He came into her line of view, lambent eyes gold and unblinking. "I had no intention of sneaking up on you, Sorelli. You were simply lost in a brown study. What is so troubling to you?" The cloaked figure glided toward her, halting a respectful distance away, and searched her face closely. "Is everything all right, dear?"

She ignored the concern in his voice and fished the note out of the pocket of her skirt, holding it out to him. "No need to deny that this came from you, and according to Poligny, it's not the first, and probably will not be the last. I would like to know why. I don't bother you, and I _don't _give away your secrets. Why can't you do the same for me?"

He pretended not to hear the growing ire threading her tone, and leaned back casually against Pegasus, crossing his arms over his chest, mentally patting himself on the back for a job well done. "This is why. Sooner or later I assumed you would wish to protest in person the critiques I have been sending those two. I knew you would take issue with them, _as_ you did, and insist on a little tete-a-tete," he gestured widely with one pale hand at the place where they now stood, "_as_ you did."

"Do you realize how insane that sounds? It's utterly ridiculous- if you wished to see me, why not use the normal method and write to _me_! But that still doesn't explain why you feel the need to belittle my dancing to the very people who pay me to do it!"

"No, it does not, but I accomplished my goal, all the same."

"Which is-?"

"You are here with me," he said simply.

She huffed loudly, not understanding him at all. "Try tapping on my door someday. That's what everyone else does, and only consider! It works very well. It might just work for you too!"

The smirk riding those thin lips, made her want to reach out and knock his hat off, just to wipe it away. But she refrained- wisely. They were on the roof, and it was a long way down to the street.

"I have found I need you in small doses, Louise. We are like oil and water, never mixing all that well for very long, but it seems I can only last a short while before I have the urge to be near you again." When she opened her mouth to protest, he put up a hand. "You know very well your dancing is exemplary, so why bother to get upset over my very poor sense of humor? I was merely tweaking you for amusement. You told me long ago that I was much too serious, did you not? Well, I am trying to rectify that."

"But at my expense," she said dryly, and stared up at him in the semi-darkness, moving a little closer. "Yes, we do seem to always be at each other's throats over one thing or another. Goes back years, doesn't it?" She narrowed the distance between them and reached a hand up to his cravat, smoothing it with fingers that trembled a little. Why she invented an excuse to touch him, she wouldn't allow herself to dwell on.

Erik had stopped breathing when he felt her hand on his chest and swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as a bone. "Louise- " he whispered helplessly. "I-"

"How are your lessons with Christine coming?" Self-consciously, she removed her hand and regarded him with knowing eyes. "I see you are moving her closer to you by way of the mirror. That should be absolutely lovely for you," she said flatly, not considering it lovely at all.

He stepped back swiftly as though she had taken a punch at him, but recovered quickly and shook his head. "My my, Louise. Quite the little cat, aren't you? You were offered that very room and turned it down. Why get so irritated now when someone else has need of it?"

"I suppose if I _had_ taken it, I would be ordered to remove myself the same as Carlotta, wouldn't I?"

His smile was cold. "How is the comte these days, Sorelli? Still stringing you along?"

"How dare you?" she snapped, feeling again the dangerous urge to knock his hat off. "I don't have to listen to this. I should never have come up here, because of course you would be a bastard about it!" and turned to go, wanting only to put distance between them.

What she didn't count on, was Erik taking exception to her leaving; he was on Louise in seconds and grabbed her arm, whirling her around. "Oh, no you don't, my girl! One of us is always making a hasty exit. Not this time," and he pulled her toward him and grabbed for her hands. "Don't leave yet," he implored.

He refused to release her and she couldn't find it in herself to struggle very much, in turn, clinging to his bony fingers and wondering why they could never meet in the middle where their feelings were concerned. _What _feelings? He stared down at her, a gentle smile making an appearance. "Ah! This is nicer, isn't it? Don't be angry."

She took a deep breath, of a sudden, not wanting him to let go of her hands, and gave a throaty little laugh. "Mm- then don't talk, Erik. You'll spoil things."

"For shame, La Sorelli. I was merely going to say that I like this much better. It is most pleasant."

"I couldn't agree more, Monsieur St. Clair, but we seem to keep meddling in each other's affairs of late. Wouldn't you agree? I remember when you ended our long-standing friendship. What has changed?"

"I missed my dearest friend," he said quietly.

"Your friend is quite busy stomping cockroaches," but there was a definite sparkle of humor in her eyes, which he was relieved to see.

"Don't be angry, Louise," he repeated. "I'll make it up to you, I swear. Only good things written about you from now on. My word to you. Would you like an increase in salary? I _am_ the almighty opera ghost, you know."

"You are incorrigible," she said with a chuckle.

"Meet me here tomorrow night," he whispered.

She was ready to agree to it when she stiffened. "I-I can't."

"Of course you can. Just say yes."

She began to pull away. "I said I can't."

His euphoria started to dissipate when it occurred to him _why _she would be occupied and with whom. "Ah, I think I understand you. Well, no matter. Cancel it."

"You aren't listening to me, are you? I said no."

"You can and you will," he said firmly.

"_Again_ with this, Erik? Don't you ever learn? You cannot dictate to me in this way and yet you never seem to stop! Perhaps if you insist I give up Philippe for _you_, you will cancel your lessons with your soprano! It is only fair, I think, for us both to be on the same level, don't you agree?"

"No, I do not, and you damned well know it! The girl has a gift- a voice to lift to the very heavens, but she needs my guidance to get there. Try to see reason." He was caught between anger and pleading, and the feeling didn't sit too well with him. "Don't you realize what this means to me? It's what I have always wanted; a divine talent to match the grandeur of this opera house!" His voice shook with emotion, and it disturbed Louise to hear it; his dream could very well turn into obsession if he wasn't careful- Erik never did anything by halves, and even Christine's desires wouldn't enter into it.

"You always want me to conform to your way of thinking, but you never give me the same courtesy. The omnipotent opera ghost has spoken! Is that it, Erik? Fine. I wish you all the best with your diva! Wish me happy as well."

"I will do no such thing! You deserve what is about to befall you, Sorelli. You will be used and tossed away like so much trash. I told you once before...the ancien regime do not marry outside of their own kind. It is just not done, and you will find it out the hard way. It will not be marriage you are getting, my girl!"

"And I told you that I am _not _expecting one! I enjoy Philippe's company- he is a gentleman and an interesting conversationalist."

"Oh, if conversation was all he had on his mind, I would think you in good company, Louise. Very good company indeed, but alas, talking is not what he requires from you."

She caught the gleam of his eyes, which appeared suspiciously bright to her- she would forget and not think of it until later. "So you keep telling me! It is a recurring theme of yours and you insist on ramming it home. Enough. I have had enough." She turned to leave this time, never quite sure why they constantly butted heads. "Good bye, Erik. Bonne chance."

"Wait! Don't go just yet. Please."

It was uttered quietly, but it was the word please which garnered the most attention. To most gently bred people, it implied manners and civilized behavior. To her friend, it meant a show of weakness- groveling. Louise could count on one hand the amount of times he had used that particular word and actually meant it. That he said it now, showed very well the state of his mind. She turned around and looked inquiringly at him, the moonlight casting him half in light and half in shadow- the way Erik had always been. One foot in each, but the dark side always having more of a claim on him.

"Why bother? We were much more friendly, I think, when we had nothing and no one. What has happened to us?"

"You are still my dearest...friend. M-My _only _friend," and it was nothing but the truth. He didn't want this chasm between them any longer, having forgiven her for any ill-thoughts she had believed of him. "I promise to behave in future, and will endeavor to cease my dire predictions concerning de Chagny, as well as no more teasing letters. I had forgotten how emotionally fragile a prima ballerina's confidence can be," he stepped toward Sorelli, his gaze never leaving hers, "especially the great ones," he whispered. "Stay awhile?"

Her face softened, noting the warmth of his amber eyes. "Very well. As long as I have your solemn vow to desist from wounding my frail ego, then I accept your offer."

"I am very pleased that you do."

"Erik?"

"Yes, Louise?"

She looked up at him in the pale light and smiled wistfully. "I'm glad you're no longer angry with me. I-I missed you too."

A genuine smile graced his lips as he removed his cloak and draped it lightly around her shoulders. He led her back to the bench some enterprising souls had placed there years before; with the cool night breezes and lights of Paris surrounding them, they talked long and deep of everything they had wanted to say to each other for months. Erik's hand at one point crept out and snatched one of hers, holding it captive between his as they discussed whatever came to mind. His thumb lightly stroked her palm while they talked, and when he gently seized her other hand, she willingly surrendered it into his keeping. What only became noticeable after she had gone home, was the absence of the offer of the rue Scribe key returned to her, but for those short moments, they were both well content.

* * *

**Nothing beats a rooftop tete-a-tete, but something's gotta give. Juggling two women when you've had very little experience at it, is _not _recommended ;)**


	24. Chapter 24

Christine Daae's debut on the night of the gala performance was a rousing success. The new sensation sang an aria from Romeo et Juliet to great applause, but it was her affecting prison scene from Faust that many in the audience would not soon forget. To many that night, the young soprano was the embodiment of Marguerite. She was exquisite. In direct contrast was Sorelli's first try at public speaking, which by comparison was a rousing flop. To say it was due to her speech writing abilities or even her elocution would be a wrong assumption, for everything that _could _go wrong with her tribute at Poligny's and Debienne's retirement party- did. And it was all due to the presence of a man pretending to be a ghost, who in turn had aided in the victory of Daae that very night by portraying an angel.

This gala had no equal; even the first performance in 1875 could not compare. Louise was quite certain that a particular friend of hers had a hand in the making of it. The illustrious names on the program were a roll call of the great composers. Among them, Gounod had conducted the Funeral March of the Marionnettes, Delibes, the Valse Lente from Sylvia and the Pizzicati from Coppelia; Massenet led the orchestra in his performance of an unpublished Hungarian March. But the real triumph was reserved for the Daae.

Louise, earlier that evening, sat at her vanity and carefully removed the heavy makeup worn in her pas de deux from Sylvia for the gala. It was still underway to a full House, and it had gone well, but now she could concentrate on the speech she was giving later that evening for the departing managers. It was laid out in front of her as she worked to memorize her lines, not wanting to embarrass herself by forgetting what she wrote. She was hardly shy about standing in front of a roomful of people; after all, she had danced in front of a sold-out House for years now. But this was different. It would be her thoughts and words that were uttered that night, and she wished them to be well received.

A tap on the door, and it opened as Meg Giry stuck her head in the room. "Are you very busy, Louise? Can we come in?" Not waiting for an answer, she threw the door wide and entered quickly, with five more of the corps de ballet trooping in behind her.

Louise turned and was about to order them out; their dance from Polyeucte could only have just ended onstage. "Oh no you don't! You may turn around-" She caught the look of fright and excitement on their faces, Edith's especially, after her narrow escape months ago. She looked at tiny Jammes, the blonde girl with a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, each one now standing out in stark relief on her white face. "What's wrong?"

Cecile had just come through the door, and shoving Meg ignominiously aside, she turned and slammed the door shut, putting her back against it. She looked with frightened blue eyes at Sorelli. "It's the ghost!"

Louise found it hard to believe that Erik would be out strolling the halls sans mask with rats running to and fro. "Have you actually seen him?"

"As plain as the nose on Edith's face," and received a dirty look from the girl for calling attention to her slightly puggish nose. Cecile Jammes dropped into a chair gasping for breath.

"Well, if that's the ghost, he's a very ugly one!" retorted Meg Giry, her usually swarthy face pale, and her black eyes wide with fear. At her words, there was a chorus of agreement from all six of them.

They all began to talk at once, until Louise silenced them with a firm reprimand. "Enough! _One _at a time, if you please! Cecile?"

Jammes glanced at the others and took a deep breath. "We had just finished our dance and started down the passage to the dressing rooms. He appeared in front of us as though he had walked through the wall. One moment he wasn't there, and then...and then...he...he was s-standing in front of me. As close as you are right now!" She caught the look of disbelief in Louise's eyes, and color rushed back into her face. "But it is true! I saw him, Sorelli!"

"What did h...it look like?" she asked, almost fearing the answer.

"It was truly awful! He is dressed as one of the gentlemen in tailcoat and top hat, but Mon Dieu, he is so thin! And...and his head is naught but a skull." She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily, before staring in alarm at the door, then back at Louise. "I swear to you on my father's grave!"

"Pooh!" spoke a tall girl from the sofa. "You see Le Fantome everywhere! And blame everything on him," she said knowingly. "_I _didn't see a thing, Louise." She scratched her head and looked about her. "Well, I saw _someone, _but he was wearing a false face l-like one would wear with a costume."

"It wasn't a false face, Marthe! It was real. But why wasn't it a figure in a winding sheet floating down the passageway? _That _is a ghost. Not...not that! Joseph Buquet saw him!" Jammes replied defensively. "Who wouldn't believe _him_? He's as sober as any magistrate!" Which was true. Everyone liked Buquet, and for that to be the case in an opera house, meant quite a lot. He was steady and quiet, never given over to exaggeration, helpful to all, and to top it off, he never touched alcohol of any kind.

Louise was aware of the stories going around concerning Erik. Joseph insisted he ran into the ghost, and the man _had _appeared excited when describing what he saw, and his very detailed description of her friend seemed to bear that out. It matched what Cecile claimed to have seen. What she couldn't grasp was why all of a sudden he was using less stealth and inviting these kinds of sightings?

"It is the ghost," Jammes reiterated to one and all, daring them to say otherwise.

The silence in the dressing room was drawn out; no one spoke, and all that could be heard was the rapid breathing of the girls. Jammes put a trembling hand to her mouth and jumped up from the sofa, hurriedly tucking herself into the furthest corner of the room, terror etched on her face. "Listen!" and pointed with a shaking finger at the door.

Everyone heard it, including Sorelli, and to think that Erik had the type of puckish humor to tease the superstitious dancers, was hard for her to grasp. The slight noise came again- a rustling outside the door- _across_ it; the whisper of fabric, or perhaps the light touch of a ghostly finger on the wooden panel. Glancing about her at the quaking girls, she huffed in impatience and went to the door. Putting her ear to it, she called out, "Who's there?"

No one answered, and they all watched Sorelli for her next move. She opened the door and leaned out while the frightened girls behind her broke into cries of fear. A little louder, "Who's out here?"

"_Who do you imagine it to be, __silly girl__?_" the voice said in her right ear, his amusement obvious to Louise. Her mouth thinned in anger. He was hiding somewhere nearby and enjoying himself. "_Unfortunately, I __see you are entertaining__, so I will make this brief."_

She opened her mouth for a retort, when Erik spoke again. "_Uh, uh, uh. Don't talk or the rats will look at you __in __the same __manner__ they are looking __at __Jammes- Little Giry is just about to make the sign against the evil eye. She'll be doing it to you as well if you are not careful."_

Edith had slunk up behind Sorelli and tugged insistently on her gauze skirt. "Close the door, Louise, w-won't you?" she said timidly as she peeked around Sorelli into the dim hallway, lit only by a gas flame cocooned inside its red shade. It did very little to dispel the shadows, but instead helped create them.

_"__Don't believe everything you might hear tonight. Remember the Communard in the cellar, Louise,__" _his silky voice intoned. On that cryptic utterance, she shut the door then turned to the girls.

"There's no one out there and that includes anything of the spectral shade," she said unequivocally. Except for a very delusional man who seemed intent on always causing one type of grief or another for her. At the thought of raking Erik over the coals, she snorted a laugh which held very little humor. Meg looked curiously at her.

Louise spared a glance for her speech lying forlornly on the table. "There is no ghost, so it is perfectly safe for you to go about your business now and- "

"Can I stay a while longer?" Giry said faintly, and the other girls added their squeals of entreaties until Louise was actively perturbed.

Not a ghost, she seethed, but when she got through with him, a very sorry man indeed. At the same time, she admitted that she was puzzled by his behavior.

Cecile looked at Louise sullenly. "Don't you believe Joseph then, Louise?"

"Joseph Buquet would do well to hold his tongue. That's Mother's opinion," replied Meg, lowering her voice and glancing about nervously, never certain where the opera ghost could be hiding.

Edith cocked her head at Giry and bounced excitedly on the sofa. "Why is it your mother's opinion? She can't be friends with the ghost, can she?"

"Quiet! Mother says the ghost doesn't like to be discussed."

"What does your mother know of the opera ghost?" Marthe asked curiously, and all the petite rats surrounded Meg and watched her expectantly, ready to be frightened again- and loving it.

"I-I promised not to tell," but that did Giry no good, and amid cries of, 'tell, tell!' she explained. "It's because of his box."

"His box?"

Meg was enjoying the attention, for once not fading away into the woodwork, and she puffed out her thin chest importantly. "Why, yes. Box Five on the grand tier. Mother takes care of it for him and- "

"You're being ridiculous, Meg Giry, and your mother would not appreciate it at all! Stop teasing these girls at once." Louise, who had been going over her speech and trying very hard to mute their shrill chatter, had glanced up and decided to put a stop to the speculation about Box Five. She knew Erik would take a dim view of the entire corps de ballet traipsing through his private box looking for him. "I have a small bone to pick with one of you," and they all stopped their chattering to look at her warily.

"I didn't do it," Edith stated solemnly, brown eyes large in her wan face. Cecile poked her in the ribs.

"You're a dunce, Ed! You don't even know what she's going to say."

"I'm just getting ready, that's all," she mumbled.

"Someone walked out of here with one of my paste shoe buckles. Only one, mind. If it was done as a joke, all is forgiven, so spread the word."

"Those pretty ones with the black velvet centers?"

"Yes. Know anything about that, Giry?"

Meg shook her head rapidly, and Edith stared at Sorelli, mouth hanging open. "The ghost took it, Louise. I'm certain of it."

A flurry of taps made them all jump and squeal in fear, and Sorelli threw her speech on the vanity in disgust, getting to her feet again. When she yanked open the door, a large florid woman draped in puce satin, entered and went to a chair where she dropped into it, gasping for breath. Madame Jammes glanced from her daughter to Louise, and said in slow, mournful tones, "Joseph Buquet is dead!"

* * *

Louise led her troupe of petites rats through the ill-lit passages making for the foyer. The news had quickly spread throughout the theatre that Buquet's body was found hanging in the third cellar near some set pieces and a scene from the Roi de Lahore. Sorelli nearly ran into a swiftly moving Philippe de Chagny, who warmly smiled upon seeing her. For once he appeared to be greatly excited.

"I was on my way to you, Louise. What an evening! You should have heard her! Christine Daae has all of Paris eating from her hand. She was wonderful, I tell you." He stopped speaking and got a closer look at Sorelli and the young dancers in their white net tutus, crowding around her like a raft of ducklings to their mother. He thought Louise in her ruby dress, made a very pretty picture in the center of them all. A rose amid carnations. "What's wrong?"

"One of the scene shifters was found hanging in the third cellar!" Meg cried, barely able to keep still.

He was taken aback by the excited faces staring up at him. "Well, possibly, I suppose. That is the word going round anyway. But rumors sometimes start from nothing and are quite unfounded when all is said and done," and he turned to Louise for confirmation.

She shrugged. "It would seem so, but why invent something so awful? Poor Joseph," and she told him everything she knew until they entered the foyer de la danse, which was already a crush of people. The comte had been right; Christine Daae's name was on everyone's lips. Erik must be in a jubilant mood tonight, but hard on the heels of that thought came his words from earlier. _Don't believe everything you hear. _And the monstrous notion of his involvement began to grow. "No. Not again. I won't believe it of him. I won't," she whispered.

"Won't believe what, Sorelli?" Philippe was looking at her closely, seeing the frown puckering the smooth skin between her eyes.

She ignored him and glanced round the crowded room. "I can't believe so many were invited," she replied, putting a smile on her face, "and Christine's name is on everyone's lips."

"The house went mad tonight, applauding and cheering. They were all on their feet, myself included, Louise. She was magnificent! Raoul especially was enthralled by her. He says he knows the girl from years ago, and immediately went backstage to see her. I suppose the excitement of the moment overcame her; she did appear a trifle overwhelmed. He wanted to make sure she was all right."

Louise frowned at this. "All that attention probably didn't help her either. You said Raoul knew Christine before she came to Paris?" Philippe's brother was home for an extended visit from the navy, but with his slight build and fair complexion, he always struck Louise as someone much younger than his twenty-one years would suggest. Even with the wispy blonde mustache now adorning his upper lip, it somehow made him appear younger, like a child playing at grown-ups.

"Yes. He was eager to renew the acquaintance. But enough of him," and he tucked her arm through his, "are you ready for _your _very important debut, my dear?"

She grinned at him and squeezed his arm in reply. "I suppose so, but all the excitement concerning Joseph Buquet side-tracked my preparations. Wish me luck?" she implored him.

"You have it, but you already know that, don't you?" he said softly.

"Yes." Her gaze sharpened as she studied his face. "You look tired. Busy day?"

"It usually is. I always seem to be taking care of someone else's interests in some capacity. Two estates and the businesses in Lyon keep me busy, I assure you." He turned to her and took both of her hands in his. "That is why I can barely restrain myself when I think of the jewel awaiting me at the Garnier," he replied, his eyes kindling as they searched her face.

Louise glanced about her at the rapt faces of the girls as they watched the comte flirting with her, and by the grins alone, she could tell they were enjoying themselves immensely. Cecile's mouth was hanging open wide enough to drive a carriage through, she thought snidely. Jammes had a crush on the comte and considered every expression, every utterance he made, to be all-important.

She took her place at the table with the corps de ballet spread around her. She stood with champagne flute in hand and began her farewell speech to Poligny and Debienne who were smiling broadly at their premier ballerina in expectation. It was going well, and Louise had begun to relax a bit, when she happened to glance down the table at Cecile who was staring in horror at something off to her right.

"It's him, Louise! It's the opera ghost!" Sorelli's voice stuttered to a halt, and she followed the girl's pointing finger to a face so pallid and ugly, that a collective gasp of shock rippled around the room from those present. Louise said nothing, but could only look in dismay and revulsion at a face she hadn't seen in years. But those hideous features had something that hadn't been present ten years ago. Now there was a nose, instead of the pitiable thing which had rested in the center of Erik's face. She found she couldn't look away from him, and he returned the favor, their eyes meeting and holding. She despised the enjoyment the crowd was receiving from looking on her friend's blighted features as she glanced around at the avid faces. He deserved their respect, not this jeering familiarity, and she felt her eyes filling with angry tears. Her ire, which should have been directed at Erik for ruining her speech, flew out to those so willing to belittle him, and her heart bled for a man who deserved so much more than this mocking hilarity.

"Don't laugh at him," she whispered, as she turned in a circle glaring at them all. "How dare you treat him as a...a joke for your amusement!" She rounded on Cecile who was giggling hysterically at the figure in funereal black, with the awful face. "Stop that, Jammes! Stop it now!" becoming shrill in her distress, and took the girl by the elbow and shook her, appalled at their ridicule and her own strange reaction to it. She had been dismayed at the interruption of her fine speech and now this. "He's not something for your amusement," she repeated faintly. "He's not," and glanced apologetically at the girl's arm still clutched tightly in her grip. Jammes stared at Louise's tear stained face curiously, wrenching her arm loose from her bruising fingers, and scampered out of sight.

The well dressed gentlemen and ladies were filled with mirth, and hurled offers of drinks to the ghost, while a few of the women swooned artistically in fright. Meg Giry, not to be outdone, screamed shrilly, sounding just like a peacock, but even as Sorelli watched, Erik melted away into the crowd and disappeared. The search was on for Le Fantome, and with the novelty of a ghost hunt to liven things up, everyone fanned out and looked for him. He had slipped away through the crowd and they hunted in vain for him. To her chagrin, the managers had kissed her cheek and thanked her for the kind words, all fifty of them, and took themselves off as quickly as they could go.

"Yes, dear messieurs. Run as fast as you can before the ghost gets you," she said through gritted teeth, her lovely speech in tatters.

* * *

The season was sharpening toward winter; it could be felt in the dropping temperature, and by the time Philippe's carriage had stopped in front of her apartment building, a fine misty rain was falling. October, thus far, had been uncommonly warm and golden, with deep blue skies and the false sense of security that comes with day after day of exceptional weather. But now those days were shortening and gave promise of chilled hands and feet.

Philippe opened the door of the carriage and swung out, then turned and assisted Louise down. His hand riding on the small of her back, he guided her to the apartment door, where they stopped. "It would have been a very good speech, my dear." He put a gloved finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. "It's their loss."

"I noticed a man standing near Poligny for most of the evening. I've never seen him before, but Meg Giry took an instant dislike to him. He was tall and dark skinned- quite foreign looking." Louise gurgled a laugh. "She was constantly giving him the sign to ward off evil. I'm certain she wore her fingers to little nubs doing so."

"You must mean that Persian fellow. Yes, he's an odd duck. I found him strolling around the theatre looking into every dark corner and behind every marble column. I'd say all this talk about the opera ghost is wearing on his nerves a little."

Louise gave an unladylike snort. "Yes, him and most of the corps de ballet. They'll all be having nightmares tonight. But _who _is he, Philippe?"

He shrugged negligently. "I don't know all that much about him really. He has an apartment in the rue de Rivoli and receives a pension from his government. He seems very interested in opera, or maybe just the Garnier in particular, but that's all." He put his arms around her. "Now be silent, my girl and let us get to the pleasantries." He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. A few moments later he reluctantly pulled away. "Good night," he murmured.

She put a hand to his cheek and studied him frowning. "You really should go home and rest. I wasn't teasing you earlier – you look done in, Phil." She took her lower lip between her teeth and questioned whether she should simply keep quiet, but instead found herself blurting out, "You shouldn't have to manage Agnes's and Simone's affairs. They have husbands to do that for them." She had often thought the two sisters took advantage of their brother's good nature and sense of duty. Louise had met them once at a formal dinner, and they had been abrupt and less than friendly with her. Clearly, theatre folk were not on the same social level as the de Chagny family, according to the female branch anyway, and their chilly politeness showed that all too well.

"Their husbands do manage their affairs, but since I need to travel often to Lyon, I take care of their business there as well." He shrugged. "It just makes sense to do so." He raised her hand to his lips. "Sleep well, dear."

She watched him leave, and looked down when she felt something winding around her legs. "There you are," she said with a smile, holding the door open. "Are you coming in tonight, or are you as stubborn as all of your sex?" He answered her with his rusty meow, and decided warmer was better and darted inside. He had occasionally taken her up on the offer of a night indoors, and would spend it in comfort, curled in a tight ball on her bed. She welcomed his company and the scrappy tom enjoyed the luxury he'd never known until now.

She heard the murmur of voices from the hall, and one in particular got her attention. Her mouth a tight line, she removed her coat and hat, checked her hair in the pier glass, and took a deep breath. She went and stood in the doorway of the parlor and regarded with narrowed eyes her aunt's visitor. Maria looked up and smiled. "Ah, here she is! Louise, look who has come for a visit."

He had been to dinner more than a few times, but it had been a while since he sat at their table. Maria feared a split between her niece and the masked man had occurred, and when questioned, Louise refused to say anything, merely shrugging her shoulders and pleading a busy schedule keeping them apart. She studied the man lounging gracefully in their parlor, knowing full well that his acceptance to her dinners wasn't because of the food. Rather it was the simple act of sitting down at a dinner table and sharing a meal with those who welcomed him. It had brought Erik back time and again. That and his great affection for her niece. It was there in his eyes every time they settled on the young woman.

She walked slowly into the room and looked impassively at Erik, who had set his tea cup down and risen to his feet. "I wished to see you, Louise and possibly explain a few things," glancing at Maria before continuing, "if I may have a moment of your time?"

She made a face. "Why didn't you just pop out of the woodwork as you normally do?"

Maria got to her feet and glanced sharply at her niece. "Is everything all right, child? How was the dinner? And the speech- did it go well?"

She sensed the coiling tension between the two, and wondered at it. She had been surprised to see Erik St. Clair at her door this evening, but not displeased. Strange as it seemed, she liked the oftentimes taciturn man, enjoying his conversations when he would become loquacious and witty, speaking of the places he'd been; for an odd recluse, he was well traveled. They talked often about Italy and the diversity to be found there- all spoken in her native tongue, of course. What he actually meant to her niece, she couldn't quite puzzle out- that he was more than a friend, Maria had realized long ago- something Louise stubbornly refused to acknowledge.

"It would have been fine, except the managers were suddenly called away." She looked meaningfully at Erik. "I never got to finish," and when her aunt would have said more, "I'll explain later."

Maria studied them uneasily, and Erik hastened to reassure her, "Only a moment of her time, then I promise I'll leave."

After her aunt retired for the night, Sorelli walked over and sat down across from her friend. He watched her closely, trying to gauge how upset she was with him. Inwardly he winced. Quite a bit, it would seem.

She was the first one to speak. "You're wearing your mask again," for he did indeed have the black silk carefully back in place.

He nodded. "I wear the pasteboard nose on occasion. I have for years."

"Why were you there, Erik? What did you hope to accomplish by showing up at the retirement party and calling attention to yourself?"

He shrugged. "I didn't want to accomplish anything except hear the gossip about Christine and her performance tonight." He watched as Sorelli stiffened and hastened to say, "That, and the talk concerning Buquet's untimely death." He looked at her with eyes full of regret. "My intention was not to interrupt your very fine speech, my dear. Forgive me, if you can."

She ignored this and the mention of Christine, going right to the heart of the matter. "Joseph was too nice of a man to die like that. I was told that the ghost showed up at the private dinner tonight for the incoming managers and spoke of Buquet's death as though he were intimate with the details. But I asked myself how he would know anything unless he was involved in some way?"

Erik leaned back in his chair and crossed one long leg over the other, steepling his fingers together. "Ah. So naturally you feel that if a death has occurred in my domain, then in all likelihood, I am the cause of it. Correct?"

"No. Not necessarily. But you more than anyone else are aware of how he died, aren't you?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Perhaps. But would you believe Erik if he were to say he found the man hanging there, and merely called attention to the body for decency's sake?"

"Yes. I believe you would do that," she said quietly.

His mouth remained a hard line, but his eyes softened a bit. "I had nothing to do with the man's death, Sorelli. He must have been a very unhappy soul to have desired ending his life in such a way."

"Very well. But others have caught sight of you lately. Something you would never allow in the past."

She watched entranced as his steepled index fingers slid one against the other. Back and forth they went, and she followed their pale movements, fascinated as always by their prodigious length. "I never taught voice before. I work on music and exercises for Christine's lessons during the day, but I still must find the time to come and watch for y-" he cleared his throat and dropped his eyes from hers. "I have to remain vigilant as to what goes on in the theatre. As I do everyday," he finished up lamely, but Louise knew what he had meant to say, and felt an odd ache in the vicinity of her heart. "I admit to some carelessness on my part, but I will endeavor to change that in future."

"See that you do," she said lightly, "for my dressing room is becoming very crowded of late due to some happily frightened young women."

He nodded once. "Of course."

They said nothing for a time, the minutes beginning to stretch out and become uncomfortable, until she finally had to ask. "Were you satisfied with your protege's performance tonight? I was told she did exceptionally well."

His thin lips widened into Erik's version of a smile with sharp canines exposed, and his expressive eyes gleamed with pleasure. "Louise, the angels wept! She was perfection personified, and I am well pleased with how far she has come under my tutilege."

"Well. I gather the answer to my question is a resounding yes," she said dryly.

"Oh, I know she needs more practice for the larger roles; they will only become more difficult over time, but she has made such progress- " He stopped speaking and his lip curled in disdain. To Louise, his emotions had always seemed to come and go so quickly; she had a hard time grasping one, before the next was upon him. He regarded her thoughtfully, and Sorelli thought of the time she had studied an ant colony outside her home when she was very young. She had watched them with a clinical detachment, observing them going about their infinitesimal lives, a tiny army of dedication to the common good, and she had been absorbed by them, barely moving for whole minutes at a time- wanting only to understand their very natures. Erik was now watching her as though _she _was the ant hill and trying to grasp her thoughts- her emotions. It made her want to squirm.

He put a finger to his upper lip and stroked it slowly. "Christine has reunited with a childhood friend of hers after the gala tonight. Perhaps you know him?" and she heard the trace of sarcasm in his voice. Obviously though, he was trying to control it, for she knew exactly what he was about to say. "Raoul de Chagny. He has renewed their acquaintance at the worst possible time, and he is more than willing, I think, to insinuate himself back into her life. And I won't stand for it."

"All right. I see that you don't want to, but Erik, she is not to be ordered about any more than I was. You cannot manage everyone's lives to suit yours."

"I am not _managing _her life. I simply want her to realize her full potential. She has a gift and I can help her fulfill it!"

She glared at him with distaste. "Yes, and you don't want Raoul infringing on your self-imposed territory, do you, Erik?"

"Again with this? Are you simply foolish enough, or blind enough to make such a ridiculous assumption?" His eyes glittering with a hard light. "But at the risk of becoming redundant, may I repeat...jealous, Sorelli?"

"And I told _you_ before...not even a little," her words clipped.

"Then there won't be any interference from you for my continued interest in Christine, will there? After all, why should she squander herself on that glorified fop! That sailor _boy_!" he sneered.

"Um...because that is her business if she cares to do just that?"

"No, no, no!" he retorted, sounding like a spoiled child refusing to heed his betters. "You must intercede for me, Louise. Speak to the comte and tell him what is occurring behind his back- his brother consorting with a singer!"

She swelled with indignation. "Now, why would I do that? After all, Philippe himself is _consorting _with a dancer! I have no intention of stopping Christine from seeing whom she pleases, and I suggest you do the same!"

"It would be better for everyone involved if you would. I thought we were friends," he said bitterly.

"Well, I'm thankful that you see me as such once more! And that is why I won't do it. You're being unreasonable and I think you know it."

"I am not being unreasonable! Let me just- "

She glanced toward the hallway. "I ask you to keep your voice down, if you don't mind. My aunt has gone to bed."

He held up a placating hand. "Forgive me." His mouth quirked in an ill-fitting smile. "I am a little discomfited at the moment, but Christine can be a diva if she concentrates on her instrument. She would draw the audience in with her voice, just as you do with your dance, but it seems that every time I cast my interest in a particular way, there is a de Chagny moving in to confuse the issue. It is very tiring and I find myself getting irritable because of it."

Louise scoffed at that. "I hardly think Philippe took _me _away from you. We are still friends. That has never really changed."

"What if I wanted it to change?" he said softly, so softly she didn't quite hear him.

"Pardonne?"

He stood up. "Thank Maria for me. I had better let you get some rest." She walked with him to the door where she handed him his cloak and hat. He turned to her and his eyes were tender. "You graced those boards with your performance as Sylvia. It was beautifully done, my dear, and I'm not prejudiced to say that no one could have done it better."

Louise swallowed hard. She had been so certain he hadn't seen her performance this evening. That he _had_... She stared at her hands and spoke to them instead. "What, no stomping cockroaches?" she whispered.

He shook his head, and his mouth twitched into a warm smile. "Not a single one."

"I didn't know you watched that portion of the gala."

His hand reached out and took her chin in his cool fingers. "Look at me," he said quietly, and she obeyed that commanding voice, raising her eyes to his. "I _always _watch you, Louise. Never forget that." His eyes burned briefly into hers, then he was gone. She stood by the door until his cloaked figure was out of sight.

She shivered a little, still feeling his gentle touch. "Yes, and I need to watch you, my friend. Very carefully."

* * *

**Sorelli should realize by now, that a bored Phantom is a bad Phantom. If she doesn't want him around the pretty blonde singer, she ought to suggest some busy-work. Perhaps he could clean that mammoth chandelier in the auditorium. Of course, he'll have to bring it down to do that...**


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N- ****I own nothing of Leroux's wonderful book or Susan Kay's Phantom.** **Same thing applies if ****some of**** ALW's musical ****creeps**** into the story. ****Hey, anything's possible**** ;****)**

* * *

_ Gentlemen-Good Morning,_

_I trust your new duties are being discharged with expediency? I am quite certain the negotiating, signing, and cancelling of contracts are taking their toll already, but alas, these are the duties required to manage the greatest house of music in the world. A few items to discuss. Let us start with the chorus. It needs waking up. Simply that, for they appeared to be napping on gala night. Remind them that the theatre door swings both ways._

_ Next on the agenda- Madame Giry. I have been informed of your desire to replace her. She is an excellent concierge, and performs her duties quickly and efficiently. Why rid yourself of such a personage? I would be most upset if this were to take place. Reconsider this very carefully, I implore you._

_My private box. I was disagreeably surprised to find that on arriving at the opera last, it had been sold. I am hoping it is merely an over-sight on your part, possibly slipping the minds of Debienne and Poligny to inform you that Box Five is not sold under any circumstances. If you wish to live in peace, you must not take away my private box, for it should always be at my disposal._

_The part of Marguerite in the upcoming Faust shall be played by Christine Daae_. _Never mind about Carlotta. She will be unavailable._

_A word about La Sorelli's gala dance from __Sylvia__\- exquisite_.

_Which brings us to the last item, gentlemen. My monthly allowance of 20,000 francs is now due. Kindly remit to Mother Giry, who will see that it reaches me. I pray you accept all these premises. If you refuse, a curse shall be upon this House._

_Believe me to be your obedient servant,_

_ Opera Ghost_

"This is absolute rubbish, I tell you!" Firman Richard shouted, as he waved the letter in the air. "Is this why those two dolts insisted we leave that box empty? For an extortionist who demands not only a salary for no work, but an expensive box on the grand tier? I refuse to give in to this criminal and if we must, we can bring in Mifroid to investigate this...this fraud!"

"Yes, that's all well and good, but I have heard some of what the fellow is capable. We don't want to act rashly just yet and go off half cocked," Armand Moncharmin replied, his manner placating. "Clearly, we should move slowly on this- perhaps give him a starting salary of...oh, _half _ of what he's demanding, and keep the old lady on as concierge." His meaty hands nervously fiddled with the items on his desk, and it struck Firmin once again, how much like a common Marseille dock worker Armand appeared. Thick necked and muscular, he was built for back-breaking work, not striding the halls of a baroque house of music, rubbing shoulders with the haute monde, and totting up ticket sales.

Richard snorted in disgust. He was a flamboyantly dressed man with a head of frizzy gray hair and very little patience. "_Pay_ him? I would rather see him arrested and sent to Devil's Island for the criminally insane, for surely he is that, Armand and you well know it! Give in to him once, and before long he will demand a place to live, free of charge, and half the profits from the box office! As regards to Madame Giry, she is as we speak, serving her last week as box keeper. I have someone else in mind for the post."

"You heard what the stud-groom said yesterday. This _Phantom _has also helped himself to one of the horses from the opera stables- a white one called Cesar. Lachenel himself saw a shadow on the back of the animal disappearing underground and a subsequent search turned up nothing. I suppose a black figure riding a white horse on the streets of Paris would be conspicuous; perhaps we should alert the gendarmes to the possibility." He gazed absently out the window. "Arthur Debienne cautioned us not to take this ghost business lightly, Firmin. Pay up and things run smoothly. Refuse, and he will make life very difficult for us."

Richard sighed and did what all good managers would do- he crushed the letter in one hand and tossed it toward the trash can beside the desk. "I will not be spoon fed this drivel, Armand and neither should you. What of this Daae? I thought La Carlotta was the reigning diva?"

"Apparently she still is. We have the contract to prove it, after all. But you heard the little Daae girl for yourself. She is quite good in her own right."

"Well it would seem that you and the opera madman see eye to eye on something then." He folded his arms across his chest and looked mulishly at his partner. "Carlotta will be Marguerite. Ghost or no ghost. If he wants a war, a war he shall get!"

* * *

The very next morning, a discreet knock on the office door, revealed a morose Madame Giry standing there, a letter thrust out in front of her. Richard regarded the squat woman with distaste, taking in her rusty black taffeta dress and garish purple hat, a very large feather sticking out of its brim.

"From the opera ghost, if you please, messieurs." she said sullenly, for it was to be her last week before her duties were taken over by a new concierge.

Firmin plucked it from her hand and curtly dismissed her, wondering what new indignities the lunatic would demand. Unceremoniously, he opened it and immediately his face suffused with unhealthy color.

_My dear managers-_

_ So it is to be war between us then? If you still care for peace, here is my ultimatum. It consists of the four following conditions-_

_ 1-My private box at my disposal exclusively._

_ 2-The part of Marguerite shall be sung by Christine Daae, never mind about Carlotta- she will be ill._

_ 3-Reinstate Mother Giry to her duties as box keeper._

_ 4-My salary is to be paid in the sum of 20,000 francs._

_ Take my advice and be warned in time or suffer the consequences at your leisure._

_ O.G._

"I am heartily sick of him!" Richard shouted, and brought his fist down on the desktop, Armand just managing to save his dangerously placed cup and saucer from pitching off the edge.

He looked at him with no little apprehension. "More to the point, Firmin- how did he know we wouldn't accept his demands?" He glanced uneasily around the office, suspiciously peering into shadowy corners. "It was only yesterday that we had decided, and I certainly didn't speak to anyone about it afterward. Did you?"

"Well, of course not! After all, it was- " He stopped and joined Moncharmin in scrutinizing the room and wondering how they had been found out.

Armand had a sickly smile on his face. "_Now _will you reconsider? We have a theatre to run and tickets to sell. Do we really need this aggravation?"

"No, we do not, and furthermore we will not give in to this charlatan. I refuse on general principles, so I suppose it is war, and he has fired the first salvo across our bow." So saying, he lobbed the very latest missive from the ghost at the trash can where it joined its brethren.

* * *

The next afternoon, Sorelli arrived at the theatre to wait for Estelle, who was joining her for lunch and later a little shopping. Louise, instead of being onstage for Faust, would be Philippe's guest in his private box, and Taillier was going to help her find a dress for the occasion. She sat down in one of the plush red seats in the auditorium to wait, and watched as Christine exchanged angry words with Carlotta, who was gesturing wildly. A few people stood nearby also watching as the arrogant diva stalked off in a temper. The white faced soprano spied Sorelli sitting quietly alone, and sat down beside her.

"That woman is awful! Why does she hate me so much?"

Louise shrugged. "It's not you specifically- it has more to do with your youth and talent. You're a threat to her. What was it this time?"

"She accused me of trying to take the role of Marguerite from her!" She blew out an agitated breath, "I haven't done anything in that regard. Why would I? Even Raoul thinks she's being unreasonable."

Louise smiled. "He would think that about anyone who proved difficult with you. He's your staunchest admirer."

"And probably my oldest. We played together as children, you know. He went into the ocean to retrieve my scarf years ago, and we have become fast friends again."

"_Only _friends?"

"Yes. My teacher wants me to concentrate on my singing. He warned me against getting too familiar with Raoul." She eyed Louise warily. "He's not the only one warning me away. The comte doesn't think I'm fit company for his brother either."

"I'm sure you're over-reacting a little. Philippe isn't a snob like some of the beau monde. Don't worry." But she knew that was not the case at all; Philippe wasn't too happy with his brother's singular interest in the young singer. Sorelli looked at her curiously. "How are your lessons coming along?"

She watched as Christine's face lit up in a shy smile. "He told me I am doing very well and I have the range to actually _be _Marguerite!" Her face fell a little. "I only wish I felt more confident in front of everyone. I-I feel exposed onstage, Louise. I get too excited and overwrought."

"What does Er...the gh...the _Angel _think about your stage fright?" grimacing as she stumbled through the litany of personas worn by her friend.

"It's funny, but he told me to emulate your behavior."

"Mine?"

"Yes. He said your poise and grace as Giselle is exemplary, and that no matter what you may be feeling on any given day, you project confidence and ability, and I should study your methods and...and concentration during rehearsals. He said I should prepare myself mentally just as you do." She stared unseeingly at the magnificent seven ton chandelier directly overhead, trying to remember her angel's words. "Um...You make Giselle come to life...uh, flowing beautifully from one edge of the stage to the other, never, ever missing a beat- that you have wings on your feet and beauty in your soul. He said you were a...a dream come to glorious life and you accomplished it with...with hard work and dedication."

"He did?" Eager to hear more, she leaned forward. "What else did he say about me?"

Christine daintily cleared her throat, glancing quickly at Louise then away. "He said...uh...well, he...he said your Coppelia by comparison, was too driven and pedantic and not light-hearted enough...that...that you moved like s-someone weighted down by a hod of bricks- " She looked at Louise again, feeling contrite. "I'm sorry. That was harsh."

_Erik can be harsh. _Sorelli waved her apology away. "Well, I had to ask, didn't I?" she said ruefully. "I'm certain he told you not to emulate _that _particular performance. What else do you talk about?"

"Oh, mostly traveling with my father from place to place. He even asked me once if I ever slept in a barn loft or drank milk fresh from a cow."

Louise said nothing for a moment. So he thought of those times as well, did he? And with affection it would seem. Just as she did. She looked up at Christine. "Rather odd conversation for an angel."

"Yes, I know, but it's funny, Louise- he sounded almost...almost sad."

She stared at the younger woman, wanting to know more about their time together, no matter how mundane, and at last could admit to herself, a fleeting stab of jealousy, and if her dreams were any indication, a little more than idle affection for her friend. She had awakened from the grip of one only that morning, almost certain she would find him lying beside her. Strangely, the imprint of his mouth on hers, and his clever hands caressing her willing flesh had felt real, and there was a moment's disappointment that it was not. She had welcomed his deft touch, his fingers moving with loving surety, his thin length pressing her eagerly into the mattress...

She shook her head in negation, snapping her mind away from the odd pleasure she took from those times her subconscious took over and she found completion in his arms. The resultant feelings dredged up, disturbed her on many levels, and her mind once again shied away from such musings, deeming them ridiculous.

She had checked on Christine often, surreptitiously questioning the girl, and making sure that Erik wasn't taking advantage of the situation. She was almost certain he wouldn't, for he did indeed have a code of conduct, narrow as it might be. She remembered well that it had often become strained, but somehow he always managed to find the wherewithal to pull back from disaster before it was too late. There was an element of danger ever present in her dealings with him, but he had a fair portion of decency threading through his character. Erik didn't fit very well into any compartment, but was in his own unique way, an honorable man- she was sure of it. Nevertheless, if he so much as put a toe out of line, she would quickly call him to task for it.

"...can rattle on, I know," Christine was saying.

A dull red flush had crept into Sorelli's cheeks, and she forcefully shoved her silly fancies back into the dark where they belonged. "No. Not at all. I'm afraid I was woolgathering." She stubbornly focused her attention on the other woman. "Are you still comfortable with your lessons?"

Christine had been watching the play of emotion across Louise's face and was puzzled by it. "Very much, although sometimes I wish I could see him."

_No you wouldn't._ "You do realize that angels are...are, um...not meant to interact with us on a daily basis. Therefore, it is quite likely that this divine being is really flesh and blood in the same way as you and me." She braced herself, waiting for the explosion of denials, but was startled when the younger woman agreed with her.

"Yes. I came to that conclusion weeks ago." She bit her lip and looked at Sorelli with a trace of embarrassment and pink cheeks. "I'm not that much of a fool, I hope. I was a little slow discovering it; my only excuse are the tales I was brought up on. Elves and trolls...little Lotte and angels, but he is shy and in no hurry to reveal himself to me. I asked him if he would."

"And?"

"He said that perhaps he might. I can't wait to meet him, Louise."

_Then you are in for a rude shock. _"Why?"

Her blush deepened, and to Sorelli, she appeared to be struggling with several feelings at once. "His voice is unlike any I have ever heard." She sneaked a quick glance at Sorelli before dropping her eyes. "It makes me think of things that I...shouldn't." Her laugh was shaky. "N-Never mind. But I know he is handsome; he must be, with such a beautiful voice. A-And angels by their very nature, are beautiful creatures, are they not?" and she put up a slim hand when Louise opened her mouth. "I know, I know. He is not an angel, but he has always been so helpful and kind. Perhaps his beauty comes from within." Her expression was a jarring mixture of confused and happy. "I-I think I could love him." This was said with a touch of asperity as though challenging Louise to disagree.

She couldn't quite believe her ears as she stared in dismay at the delicate young woman. _Oh, Erik. What have you done?_

* * *

They met Philippe on the way out of the theatre as he was going in. "Sorelli! I was on my way to see you." He had removed his hat and nodded politely to Estelle, who smiled saucily back at him. "I came to take you to lunch, if I may?" his demeanor so boyish and hopeful, she had to laugh at him.

"We would be delighted. We need fortifying before tackling the shops. I'm looking for the perfect gown to impress my beau for an evening of opera. As I will be arriving on his arm, I certainly don't wish to have him regret the invitation."

"That would never happen," he said promptly, and bowed briefly before slipping his hat back on his head. "My carriage awaits, ladies." He leaned over as he walked beside Louise and whispered, "You, dear lady would look charming in a gunny sack."

She grinned at his playfulness. "You, sir are trying much too hard. You and I both know I would look awful in a sack."

"Then remove it, I say. Much more the thing," and he leered comically at her, waggling his eyebrows.

"Don't either one of you mind the fact that I can hear everything you're saying? And you are causing me to blush!"

The comte looked contrite, but his blue eyes were still alight with amusement. Sorelli was having none of it though. "You haven't blushed in years, Estelle and you well know it!"

The three entered Philippe's carriage which had pulled up to the curb, and very soon, they were seated in Maxine's. Estelle ogled the sumptuous dining room and wealthy patrons eating at tables laid with crisp white cloths, sparkling crystal, and the best china. While Philippe spoke with their waiter, she leaned close to Louise. "I could get used to this. Does the comte bring you here often?"

She shrugged. "I suppose. Though sometimes we go to Au Rocher de Cancale or the Cafe de la Paix. Occasionally to one of the restaurants in the Bois."

"The younger de Chagny is starting to look better and better," she quipped, only half joking.

"He's already taken, I think."

"And who might that be?"

"Christine Daae. They're old friends recently reunited. I think Raoul is quite smitten with her."

"Oh, I don't care if he keeps her as a friend, Louise. Friends come and go. I am talking about _love,_" and she fluttered her lashes suggestively.

"Something in your eye, Mam'selle Taillier?" Philippe had turned to her, one side of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. He really was the most divine man, and she wondered, not for the first time, if there were any more de Chagnys at home. After all, they seemed partial to ladies of the theatre.

* * *

A boy delivered the note to Philippe at his residence on the Boulevard Saint-Germain at precisely seven o'clock. Scanning it hastily, he put aside his formal wear and threw on the nearest coat to hand. To his manservant, "Have Timothee saddle my horse quickly and ready the coach for Mademoiselle Sorelli and her aunt. He is to deliver them to the Garnier as planned, and I will join them as soon as I can." He scribbled a hasty note to Louise explaining that Raoul had met with an accident and was at a surgeon's in the rue St. Honore and he was going to him immediately. "Have him give this to the mademoiselle when he arrives at her home."

He had no sooner left for the surgeon's when Timothee, the head groom, led the two matched bays out of their stalls and hitched them to the coach. Buckling the harness, he turned when he heard a slight noise behind him thinking it was one of the numerous barn cats. "Damn things are everywhere," he muttered, never seeing the arm snaking around him with a rag clutched in one hand and held firmly to the groom's nose and mouth. Timothee went limp, and was unceremoniously dumped in one of the empty stalls, the door closing on his sprawled form.

His assailant, hunched over and listing slightly to one side, grinned hugely, showing crooked yellow teeth. "Nothing like a nap in the hay, eh, mon frere?" as he plucked the note meant for Louise from the unconscious man's pocket.

He hurriedly finished the job of harnessing, and glancing furtively out the wide doors, climbed up to the driver's seat, and clucked softly to the horses as they left the carriage house.

* * *

Maria called to her niece when the de Chagny carriage arrived in front of their apartment building a half an hour earlier than planned, and Louise dashed about putting the finishing touches to her toilette. "What was the man _thinking_? You don't remove even a few minutes preparation time from a woman's ablutions- especially when it's a night at the opera," she grumbled to her aunt as she arrived nearly breathless to the front hall.

"All the same, we are ready, cara and the count must have a good enough reason for doing so," although she wondered to herself what it could be. Usually Philippe de Chagny was punctual to a fault, never seeming to deviate from his well ingrained manners. Always the gentleman. She took in her niece's attire and thought wickedly, _that_ state of affairs might change tonight.

"You look very nice," she said, studying her niece's gown of mauve satin with two flounces of cream Valenciennes lace forming a tablier on the front of the skirt, and falling upon a plaited flounce at the foot. The bodice was low cut, a wealth of her creamy skin revealed, and temptingly displayed. Short, shirred sleeves were off the shoulder, the full skirt falling from a tiny waist, and draping cleanly over the smallest of bustles. Louise's brown locks were pulled back in a gleaming chignon with a few of the curls artfully loose and framing her face. Quite the vision to catch the eye of a count, she thought affectionately, as she looked at her brother's only child.

Sorelli regarded Maria's dress and returned the compliment. "You as well, tante. That burgundy color looks lovely on you," she replied, as she slipped a wrap around her shoulders. The night was a mild one as they exited their apartment and walked to the carriage and the figure standing near the door. She glanced in puzzlement at the man and said to Maria, "That's not Timothee. And where is Philippe?"

The coachman held the door open for them, and Louise was struck by the man's oddly slouched posture in the waning light. He wore a voluminous coat which reached nearly to the ground and a hat with a wider than usual brim. The man's eyes were a warm brown and regarded her steadily; nevertheless, she felt the first stirrings of unease.

"Where is the Comte de Chagny? And his regular coachman?"

He bowed slightly in deference, and she wondered at his slouching stance, when her eyes fell on his humped shoulders and absence of a neck. She stoically kept her gaze on the man's eyes, willing herself not to stare. He was a hunchback. "Le comte will be pleased to meet you at the theatre, Mademoiselle Sorelli. He had some business to attend and sends his regrets _and_ the carriage for your convenience. Ah...Timothee will be driving the comte from his home when his business is concluded. Allow Baudin to assist you into the carriage. If you will be so good?" and waited to hand them in.

One last look at him and she shrugged slightly. She wasn't familiar with all of those in Philippe's employ, and it wasn't unheard of for him to change his plans at the last moment, but this was a little strange even for him. Having no other recourse, she entered the carriage and settled in with her aunt for the short drive to the opera house.

Talking idly with Maria, she looked out the window a few minutes later, only to realize they were traveling in the wrong direction.

* * *

The House that night was packed for the presentation of Faust, many in the audience expecting a showdown between the Daae and Carlotta. All of those faithful to the Spanish singer felt the younger soprano was trying to usurp her diva status. All eyes were trained on the stage with eager anticipation, for according to their programs, Daae had been relegated to the role of Siebel.

Present in Box Five were MM. Richard and Moncharmin. They would watch the opera from the best seats in the House... and the best seats for a ghostly visitation. The famous baritone, Carolus Fonta had just finished his appeal to the powers of darkness onstage, when Richard leaned over and spoke softly to his partner, "Any word from the ghost yet?"

Moncharmin merely grunted. "Absolutely none, and I'm really in no hurry to change _that_ state of affairs. The performance has only just begun, and Madame Giry informed me that he doesn't bother to show up until the middle of the first act. Quite a lazy spirit, isn't he?" He glanced across from them at a box on the grand tier, and noticed a pale young man sitting there alone. "Who's that?" he asked, pointing him out to Richard.

"Oh, that's the Vicomte de Chagny. Odd though- I thought his brother was to be here tonight with our prima ballerina."

Moncharmin merely shrugged his beefy shoulders. "Perhaps the comte has found something better to occupy his time; Sorelli has the charms to do it, the lucky dog. I would dearly love to find myself tangled up in those long legs of hers." He cocked his head as he thought about it. "Is it true about ballerinas?" and he looked at Firmin for confirmation.

"Is what true?" Richard absently replied as he peered into the audience below.

"They can do it in more varied positions than even the priciest whore?"

"Hell if I know, but if you happen to bed one, or even get lucky with Sorelli, let me know, will you?"

Armand leaned back, still lost in a sexual fantasy involving a supple dancer and every way a fellow could get laid. He sighed in pleasure, thinking a trip to Phoebe's in Montmarte might be in the offing after tonight's production, and he'd demand the tallest and most lithesome whore in the place. "It's not a bad House tonight for one with a curse on it, is it, Firmin? No ghost and no diva fight."

Richard chuckled and pointed to a vulgarly dressed woman in the very center of the auditorium with a frock-coated man on each side of her.

"And whom might that be?"

"_That _is my new concierge with husband and brother in tow. I gave them tickets for tonight's performance. I wanted her to have a good seat at least once before spending the rest of her time showing other people to theirs." He narrowed his eyes and peered closer. "It would seem though, that she has helped herself to even better ones- she's much closer to the stage than she should be. Curious that there is no one around them, isn't it? It looks quite empty, Armand, but I know for certain that it was a full House tonight."

Moncharmin indicated the woman sitting below them. "Mme. Giry's just vacated post?"

"The same," and Richard leaned comfortably back in his seat and took a sip of champagne. "She may lodge a complaint against me if she so wishes."

Moncharmin snorted. "With who? The ghost?" and they had a good laugh at that, until Richard shushed his partner and nodded at the stage. "There is Christine Daae," and they both quieted to listen.

They left the box during the entr'acte to mingle a bit, and upon returning, were nonplussed to spy a box of sweets on the little shelf protruding from the railing. Next to the chocolates was an opera glass. Both objects completely innocent and ordinary, but Moncharmin felt a chill crawl up his spine at the sight of them. They looked at each other wordlessly and sat down. "Didn't the Giry woman mention that the opera ghost gave her chocolates once in a while?" he whispered to Richard, who could only manage a shaky nod.

No more was said between them as they nervously watched the stage, until further into the evening, when Carlotta began the jewel song to loud cheers from her supporters. Richard's tense shoulders had begun to relax; the atmosphere that night had been pregnant with the threat of something dire about to unfold. All this ghost business had colored his thoughts and made him edgy. "It has gone very well this evening, wouldn't you say, Armand? I do believe our resident phantom had other plans tonight," his smile self-satisfied and easier.

"That's right, that's right. He's having his very own lie-in with a bewitching and bosomy revenant. Who could blame him, eh? Must get lonely looking for something to plug. Ever wonder how ghosts get their jollies?" and when his companion shook his head, he laughed feebly and glanced around the quiet box, stifling a belch. "Neither have I, but I think ours is going for a second go at her," and Richard snorted his amusement.

"Being invisible, I would imagine they have a hard time finding each other, and even when they do, wondering _what_ to put _where_," sending them both into more muffled snorts of laughter.

They sobered when Carlotta came to the end of the aria, and flung herself into the role with gusto and very little modesty. She looked over-blown and frowzy, becoming a little too long in the tooth to be portraying a much younger woman, and Moncharmin listened to her straining vocals and overdone delivery with a moue of distaste. Just as she sang, 'and all my heart subdue,' the top heavy diva let out a great and powerful croak.

"Eh?" Firmin Richard sat up in his seat, nearly asleep when the nasty sound erupted from the diva's throat. "Just like a damned frog," he uttered in horror. Even from this distance, he could see the consternation on her face. The uproar in the House was huge as everyone talked at once, while La Carlotta tried to gather her tattered dignity and her instrument, to continue as though she hadn't just sounded like something from a swamp.

Moncharmin turned to Richard, the short hairs on his neck rising in terror as he heard breathing behind him; felt the icy chill of it on the back of his neck- so very, _very_ close behind him. He eyed his partner without moving his head, and saw that Richard as well, realized they were now three in the box- in the _ghost's _box. Wanting to do nothing more than bolt from his seat, Armand Moncharmin instead looked with a white face toward the stage where the diva was giving a series of very loud croaks, punctuated occasionally by actual singing.

The House once again broke into a cacophony of noise as the croaking Carlotta tried mightily to recover her voice through sheer volume. The orchestra, professional though they were, had a number of instruments hitting everything but the correct notes, as the strangeness played out before their very eyes. One by one the strings fell silent as all eyes were riveted on the diva's bizarre affliction, the brass as well, were unable to find the breath to continue. Likewise the percussions, where there sounded a dirge-like drum roll before stopping altogether.

The two managers were having their very own melodrama, and had blanked out what was happening onstage and in the pit. They dared not turn around in their seats as a smooth chuckle was heard directly behind them. "A bosomy revenant, you say? A willowy one for this ghost," and it was a fortuitous thing that neither manager could see the wide and undeniably malicious grin directed their way. Moncharmin yelled, petrified when the majestic and impossible voice went from one of icy amusement into a thunderous roar-

"**She is singing tonight to bring the chandelier down!**"

As though their heads were controlled by one string, they raised them in tandem to the magnificent painted ceiling and the immense chandelier that was slipping down, down, coming straight toward them as though being called forth by that God-like voice just behind them. It sounded as though the very heavens were ripping asunder, and Richard inadvertently froze in his seat, tucking his head into his chest and squeezing his eyes shut- waiting for oblivion. The crash as it hit the center of the theatre was horrific- a noise like no other, and a thousand terrified throats added to the tumult, while chunks of plaster and glass rained down on the terrified heads below. Everyone began shouting and screaming at the same time amid a wild exodus for the doors, the two managers sitting in numbed shock. They knew when the ghost disappeared from the box, but in his stead he left Armageddon.

There was indeed a curse upon the House.


	26. Chapter 26

"Where do you think he is taking us?" her aunt whispered, and sent another nervous glance out the window.

Grimly, Louise followed her gaze and shook her head as the road passed at a good clip beneath their carriage wheels. "I don't know." She put a hand over Maria's. "It will be all right, don't worry," even as disquiet made inroads on her own composure. They could wait for the carriage to stop, and try to escape through the city streets; _she _could manage it easily enough, even in a gown and evening slippers, but her aunt could not. Scream out the window at passersby for help? She flicked her eyes around the area they were passing through, staring anxiously at the faces on the sidewalk, but they were moving too fast; how long before anyone could send the gendarmes in pursuit of their carriage? Worriedly, she looked at the scenery going swiftly by, and recognized the area as the 11th arrondissement- they were on the Right Bank of the Seine River.

"It _is_ Count Philippe's coach, isn't it, Louise?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps we have a new driver and he got his instructions wrong."

"Perhaps. But I don't think Philippe would keep such a man in his employ, tante."

"And I don't think the count is such a man as to discriminate over an accident of birth," she said quietly, as she clenched gloved hands around her beaded handbag.

"No, I didn't mean that at all. I only meant he wouldn't keep someone in his employ who could not satisfactorily follow his instructions."

"Well, I do know he will be worried sick over your disappearance, cara. He is like Erik in that regard; he is very fond of you and will search everywhere for us."

They fell into a tense silence as the buildings thinned a little and everything became unfamiliar to Maria, but to Louise, the view outside her window brought up a recollection; that and her aunt's words, as a tiny suspicion began to winnow its way into her thoughts. _Just like Erik... __Who ke__eps__ warning __me__ away from Philippe? _Yes, it was something he would do, and unconsciously she began to relax a little. "I don't believe we are in any danger."

Maria turned to her and gave her a nervous smile. "I hope you may be right, for I have no weapons on my person except for a very large hat pin," and opened her fist to reveal the wicked looking pin sitting there on her palm, winking dully in the dim light.

"Why didn't I think of that?" her niece replied admiringly, and reaching up, removed one of her own. "Together we should make quite a formidable pair." She raised her eyes upward to the mauve confection perched atop her brown curls. "Of course my _hat_ is at a disadvantage," she added with a weak chuckle, as it had listed slightly to starboard. Sitting back against the squabs, there soon grew an uneasy quiet as the carriage rolled on through the approaching dusk.

After what seemed hours, though it couldn't have been more than one, the carriage came to a stop in a place Louise recognized, for in ten years it had changed very little. It was the village on the outskirts of Paris, where a frightened girl hid behind her gaunt companion as a very large dog came ever closer to them. Belleville. That man was no less difficult than the one who had put them in this predicament. Their driver approached them with deference and stopped just shy of the window. "I have been ordered to offer wine if you care for it- biscuits also, if you are hungry."

She warily regarded him. "Who is your employer? Not the Comte de Chagny, is it?" She didn't think he would answer her, but it never hurt to try.

He stoically gazed back at her, his face immobile and distantly polite. "Wine?" he repeated, and Sorelli spared a quick look at Maria who nodded.

"Yes...Baudin, did you say? If you please," she replied, closely watching him. He left for a few minutes, and when he returned, he carried a bottle, wine glasses and a small baker's box tied with string.

Louise was faintly amused when she recognized the Tokay. And her suspicion was confirmed. "Only the best. Someone is trying to garner a little forgiveness." Baudin's face remained impassive, except for a faint gleam of amusement which crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Why?" she said in a low voice.

He didn't pretend to misunderstand her. "I was never told the reason. Only to see to the ladies' comfort and security. We will begin the trip back after the horses get a bit of a rest. Sweet goers, they are," he said appreciatively.

He turned away while Sorelli poured the wine and her aunt laughed lightly, feeling a little relieved. "I never dreamed when I awoke this morning, that I would be sitting in a carriage in the middle of nowhere having a picnic." She glanced at her niece and took a sip of the wine. "Although I am glad I didn't have that tea after dinner you tried to push on me. I would at this very moment be pleading for a water closet. As it is, the wine and a biscuit seem like a fine idea."

"Out here you would do well to find a big tree to hide behind," Louise quipped, remembering her traveling companion of long ago. It was one of those nights when the past loomed large in her thoughts.

Maria looked out the window as the last light of day went from palest peach and rose into the purple shadows of twilight. She chuckled, watching as Baudin stepped behind a black alder. "Well, it would seem that someone has availed himself of one."

She leaned over and gave Maria a peck on the cheek. "You are a love. You realize that, don't you? If I had to be spirited away with anyone, I couldn't have a finer comrade," and for the first time since their strange excursion began, her smile was sincere. "No wonder you were Papa's favorite sister."

"Of course I was- he only had the one, didn't he?" she said tartly, and took another sip of the Tokay. "This is very good wine."

"Yes, only the best for Monsieur St. Clair," she whispered, and her smile faltered. She recalled Erik telling her how he helped himself years ago to the bottles of wine, removing them from the Konigsberg Castle cellars himself. How he accomplished such a thing, he never did say. Not that she hadn't asked him; only that his garrulousness had come to an end and he refused to answer.

"Louise?"

"Nothing, tante. Enjoy the wine. It came, I think, at a very steep price."

Maria glanced at her again. "All right. I do believe you know more than you are letting on. Are you trying to protect me from the truth? Is it, Baudin? Do you believe he is a danger to us? For I don't think he means any harm."

She glanced sharply at her aunt and comprehension dawned. "Not him, tante. I don't know him, but I believe it was-" She clamped her mouth shut, not certain if Erik _was_ responsible for kidnapping them, and her aunt was mostly unsuspecting of her friend's often dubious behavior. "Someone hired Baudin to take us for a drive. Someone, I believe with a very questionable line of thought." _When has that ever changed?_

"Well, of course it is questionable, cara. We have been spirited away for God only knows what nefarious reason, but physical harm?" She shook her head. "He has taken care of us nicely. Next he will offer us blankets against the chill of the night air."

Louise sat back against the comfortable squabs and gently squeezed Maria's hand. "I believe this was a ruse to get us away from Philippe, as odd as that must sound." _A__s odd as the man who planned it__._

"What makes you say this?"

_Because it has the earmarks of something Erik would do. _She shrugged her slender shoulders and sighed in exasperation. "I can't tell you everything, because I don't know myself, but it's possibly someone from the Garnier," and she held up a hand. "I'll know more when I get to the theatre." _I'm going to kill him._ "I need to find out why we were kept from attending tonight."

"I will be accompanying you," and her tone brooked no argument.

Louise sipped her wine, shaking her head at the biscuit her aunt held out; it was a pink macaron, one of her favorites. _Oh, would the bribes never end?_ On further reflection, she wasn't entirely sure if Erik's only reason for diverting them from the Garnier _was_ jealousy of Philippe. It was too flimsy an excuse to take them on a jaunt around Paris. Something else was afoot, and he had another reason for keeping her away from the opera house.

They drank half the bottle of Tokay, during which time, Baudin inquired as to whether they were warm enough. Maria triumphantly grinned at her niece, and after thirty minutes time, he turned the bays around and headed back into Paris proper. They were for the most part quiet on the return trip, each left to their own thoughts, and Sorelli's weren't fit to share with anyone anyway. What skullduggery was he accomplishing at that very minute? She was ill at ease and her worry fought equally with a simmering anger at his underhanded kidnapping of Maria and herself, but she still had the urge to hurry. When they arrived in front of their apartment building, Baudin quickly climbed down from the box and handed the ladies out of the coach. He tipped his hat to them as they made their way to the front door.

"I'll be right with you, aunt."

Maria gave her an appraising look and nodded once to the hunchback before leaving them.

Louise turned back to Baudin. "You won't tell me why Erik has done this thing?"

He may have been close-mouthed for most of the trip, but it in no way reflected on the man's intelligence, for his eyes gleamed with it. "I have no knowledge of a man named so, mam'selle, but _if _I did, then I would say that he has a great affection for a certain lady, and would keep her safe from harm." He nodded to her and climbed back into the driver's seat, soon disappearing down the street.

Sorelli stood a moment staring after it. "Safe from _what?" _she whispered, the need to hurry once again imposing its will on her.

* * *

The grunting and cursing of the scene shifters, gendarmes, and the few gentlemen who had remained to help, were the only sounds to be heard as the weight of the chandelier was at last shifted enough, and the sturdy black shoes of the unfortunate woman were revealed. More groans and swearing, and the immense weight was at last removed, her lifeless body pulled free. Her husband and brother had fared a little better, as they were both alive and carried bleeding from the auditorium, spatters of bright red left behind on the marble floors. The woman had been the only death when the seven ton behemoth fell from the ceiling, causing hysteria and a panicked rush for the doors; it was this which had caused the bulk of the injuries to those theatre patrons, having been trampled in the wild exodus.

Philippe moved away from the chandelier, winded after helping to clear the wreckage away. He swiped an arm across his sweaty brow and took a few deep breaths. He had come straight to the opera house after finding his hasty flight to the surgeon's to be nothing more than a hoax, and gone to his box hoping to find his brother and Sorelli ensconced there. Instead he found only Raoul sitting alone and highly agitated. He stared at him as he entered the box.

"Where are Louise and Madame Renaldi?"

The younger man was in a state of weary disbelief. "She sang tonight as though she were someone else," he muttered. "Her voice was dull and...and dreary. I don't understand. She-"

"I asked you a question, Raoul. Kindly answer it. Where is Sorelli and her aunt?"

The vicomte looked up into the steely blue eyes of his brother, his air of distraction clearing for a moment while Carlotta stood onstage singing the Jewel Song. "I don't know. I've been alone all evening," and that simple fact dawned on him in that moment. "Where were you?"

"Sent on a fool's errand it seems," and sat down heavily, working out his next move. He would have to first look for Louise in the theatre, and then her home if need be. Something very strange was going on. As he thought this, his eyes were drawn to the stage where Carlotta had just let out a loud and obscene co-ack! and from that point on, the evening went from merely baffling to deadly. They were both on their feet a few minutes later when the magnificent voice thundered around them, and the chandelier came crashing down into the auditorium, bedlam reigning supreme.

"It's him, Phil! My God, it's _him_-" and before he could be stopped, Raoul was out the door. Philippe, intending to go after his brother, began looking instead for any sign of Louise among the injured lying haphazardly on the floor. To him they appeared too much like broken dolls tossed aside in a fit of pique by a spoiled child.

He now shrugged into his tailcoat and turned away from the grisly sight of the woman's crushed and bleeding body, feeling a hollowness in his chest, the rapid beating of his heart causing him to gasp for breath. There was pain there, but as yet, not debilitating. Steadying himself, he moved toward the doors of the theatre intent on finding Sorelli, but she found the comte instead. He looked up to see her coming toward him, her face a mask of shock and distress as she navigated the rubble. She reached him, noting his tired eyes and slumped shoulders.

Louise held her hands out to him. "Are you all right?" she asked worriedly, grasping his fingers tightly.

His look of relief was tangible when he saw her standing before him perfectly unharmed. "I could ask you the same, my dear. Where have you been?"

"On a drive around Paris," and despite her horror at what had occurred, she explained to him where they had been that evening.

"Where is your aunt?"

"Helping with the injured. My uncle was a doctor, and Maria helped him in his surgery. She knows almost as much as he did." Her eyes were wide and frightened as she stared at the destruction in front of her; the smashed seats, the gouged and broken floor, and the once exquisite chandelier lying in pieces, its mammoth body appearing almost beast-like, as though brought down and slain by some fiendish huntsman. She shuddered in reaction, and Philippe put an arm around her.

"What happened?" she whispered, and he proceeded to fill her in on events starting with the bogus note delivered to him and ending with the downing of the chandelier.

"M-Maybe there is a logical, more innocent explanation. Perhaps something integral weakened in the structure," Louis said, hoping against hope, that was the answer.

"I heard the voice, Louise, and it coincided with the chandelier falling. Mifroid is about somewhere; he arrived just as we started to shift the weight off of the woman. I have no doubt that he will want to talk to you as well."

She went cold at his words. "I don't know what I can tell him, Phil. Or...or Maria for that matter." Her heart had begun to pound, and she surreptitiously wiped her sweaty hands on her dress.

"Did you notice anything? What about the driver? His appearance? Any number of things could help. Someone did their utmost to make certain you were gone when the chandelier came down." His gaze was steady on her, willing answers she didn't seem to have- anything to explain this madness.

She never blinked as she met his eyes. "I don't know much, except he wasn't one of yours, a-at least I don't think so, but that's all. I-It was dark and he wore a heavy coat and hat. I am as clueless as you." _Liar. _He took her by the elbow and led her away from the scene of destruction, for which she was grateful.

"Where is your brother?" Her mind frantically searched for any cause other than the most obvious one, but the bleak truth could not be denied. Why? Why was she protecting a killer? She felt the sharp edges of guilt and shame at her own duplicity.

"Searching for Christine Daae, I would imagine. I am told she went missing just after the crash, and Raoul is no doubt beside himself. It's as though a magician made her disappear into thin air."

* * *

She had been duped, and God help her- possibly drugged as well. She could feel her body trying to throw off the remnants of dizziness and nausea. A fool so easily made; she had been gullible, and willing to believe the creature's lies so readily, trusting that an angelic entity spoke through the wall- giving her voice lessons. Her lip curled in disgust, for what stood before her now was no such divine being. He was a man, black from head to foot, a mask hiding his identity or possibly a damaged face. Her disappointment was extreme. Heavenly? Quite the opposite, if truth were told- as though he had climbed from the depths. Not angel. No. Unless he could be counted as a fallen one.

He had led her a portion of the way, walking for a distance, then miraculously she was on the back of a horse. She shook her head wearily. A white horse- surely it had been Cesar, the one from the Profeta which had disappeared in the same way she had. They had halted near a little well and he helped her down for some water. She was incapable of grasping any particulars, just a hazy awareness of her strange surroundings. She realized vaguely, that she was being spirited away by someone, but couldn't work up any emotion other than a dull forbearance.

Now she sat listlessly on a chair in an incredibly normal and staid parlor, full of baskets of flowers, their cloying scent increasing her nausea as she looked blankly at the tall figure hovering over her. Her head was beginning to clear, and alarm was growing, but as yet, it was still superseded by passive acceptance. She realized too late, she had been a fool and would pay dearly for it.

When the chandelier had come down, her first thought was for Raoul, out of her wits with fear for him, but on the heels of that had been concern for her teacher, who had promised to be there tonight, and in a steadily growing panic, she had fled to the first place she could think of to look for him, and once reaching her dressing room, she called for the Angel of Music. Over and over, she cried out, at last rewarded by his voice singing softly to calm her- the song of Lazereth. Gradually she relaxed until a gentle smile lit her face and she became aware of him giving her direction; exhorting her to approach the mirror. _Come to the mirror and all would be well...all would be well... _But clearly, that had been a lie, for it wasn't.

"Do not fear me, Christine. I mean no harm." It was the voice of an angel coming from the thin lips of a man.

And that's when she first knew he was a charlatan and fraud. _The very first time, Christine? Surely not. _She felt a shudder working its way up her spine, and slowly raised her eyes to his strange ones. "Angel?" and her face crumpled when she began to cry.

He shook his head slightly, having the grace to feel ashamed. "No, Christine. Not angel or ghost. I am Erik, and I wish only to teach you. Only that. Do not fear me." His yellow eyed stare was intense, and she dropped her eyes from it as he began to mutter, "They will listen to me now, I think. I have made certain of that," and she tried to shut out the terrified screams in her head that would not stop. "Now you must put your heart into the music, child, and you shall be great. You _must_ or it has all been for naught," he whispered.

She sobbed wretchedly, and couldn't look at him, so frightened by his deception and where it would lead. For one moment, she heartily wished for her prior state of mind- numb and unfeeling were far more preferable than the growing terror of her predicament.

He began to sing softly, knowing how she responded to his voice. She could do no more than listen to him, recalling the happy days when she found herself in the presence of a divine creature, and gradually she calmed down, for if he didn't look like an angel, he at least still sounded like one. She screwed her eyes tightly shut, concentrating on his voice alone, willing away his strange masked face.

He had given her a light dinner, and sent her to bed in the Louis Philippe room, and exhausted, the young woman had gone to sleep quickly, wanting only to escape her present circumstances. Erik poured himself a brandy, watching in a detached manner as his hand shook pouring it into a glass, the amber liquid splashing onto the table. Taking a healthy drink, he shambled to his chair and collapsed into it. Legs splayed in front of him, he hunched his shoulders as though warding off a blow, and tried to steer his mind around what had taken place tonight, for he too heard the shrill screams- over and over.

What had occurred didn't bear thinking, but his treacherous mind never obeyed his will when it came to shutting out his black deeds, and helplessly he saw the chandelier coming down and crushing the woman. One more death on his conscious- only one more among many, and he tossed back the rest of his brandy, enjoying the slow burn as it pooled in his belly. He grunted a laugh, or what passed for one nowadays, and considered the new concierge's death. _Ex-_concierge, he amended with a ghastly smile. It was quite possibly the only one he had ever regretted, for she had not been slated to die by his hand; she had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh, he meant to frighten the woman, and the managers as well, no doubt about that, but she wasn't supposed to be in that seat. In any of those seats, for he had bought up those in the path of the chandelier. He had made sure of his calculations and it was borne out by where the tremendous weight landed; he had an excellent mind for mathematics. If the wretched woman would have kept to her assigned seat, she would still be breathing. He scrubbed a trembling hand through his raven hair, his thoughts circling endlessly around and around, at last settling on one person- the only one who had ever really mattered to him.

"My God," he whispered. "My God, what have I _done_?" His voice climbing on a note of hysteria, he moaned in distress and brought a hand up to his mouth in alarm, hearing the abject despair in the sound.

He stared sightless at a spot on the wall, not moving for long minutes at a time- not _blinking_ for minutes at a time as his mind tried to shut down and hide from itself, the yawning horror waiting to dump him into the abyss. He wanted mightily not to feel anything, but knew he had failed when a ragged sob escaped his mouth. After what seemed an age, he was on his feet and grabbing hat and cloak, let himself quietly out the door.

* * *

She tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, as though the bed was made of nails and not the soft mattress that usually carried her off into the arms of Morpheus. The sight before her earlier that evening when she and Maria entered the opera house, was one of confusion and fear. Her shocked eyes refused to believe what they were seeing as bloodied men and women in their finery were led stumbling from the auditorium and their wounds tended.

Maria took one look and turned to Louise. "I don't know what happened here, but I can help. Go find the count. I know you are worried about him." The younger woman was silent, staring with wide eyes at something others could not see. For just a moment, she was back in the shell pocked street in front of her apartment as neighbors tended to her mortally injured mother.

"Louise?"

She felt Maria's hand on her arm, and looked into her anxious eyes. "Yes." She nodded and her eyes finally cleared. "Yes." she repeated in a low voice. "I-I'll go look for him."

With the comte, she searched for Raoul, and with a hunch that turned out to be correct, found him in Christine's dressing room staring hard at the mirror. He had turned to his brother and cried, "She went through here. I saw her!" and brought his fist down on the glass, frantically staring into it.

Philippe took hold of his shoulder and propelled him into the hall, with Sorelli miserably trailing behind. She cast one more glance in the direction of the mirror and joined them outside the room. Philippe pushed the younger man up against the wall and sighed tiredly. "She's not here, brother. Perhaps she went home frightened; if she did, I wouldn't blame her."

Raoul shook his head stubbornly. "Not home," and he pointed to the room, "through that mirror. I _saw_ her walk through it in a daze. When I approached it, it wouldn't open." He gazed with pleading eyes at Louise, needing someone to believe him. "It's the truth, I tell you! You believe me, don't you, Sorelli?"

Put on the spot, she was forced to speak, despising herself for it. "It's been a terribly confusing night, Raoul, and your mind was overwrought from the accident. Philippe is right. Christine is no doubt safe at home."

That more than anything was why she couldn't rest now. Tante Maria had stayed long enough at the Garnier to help stabilize the injured, then the two of them had come home. Louise knew what had happened to Christine- knew it and was nearly devastated by it. And _she _was aiding and abetting Erik in carrying it out, just as surely as she was shielding a murderer. Why she didn't speak up when prompted by a worried vicomte, was something with which she was afraid to look at too closely. But it was tearing her apart.

Eventually exhaustion claimed her, and she fell into a restless sleep- only to be awakened by a cold, bony hand pressed firmly to her mouth. Automatically, she began to struggle, and frantic, looked up into a pair of familiar eyes- the cause of all the mayhem. Seeing him only made her more determined to get loose, and she continued thrashing.

"Please. Just hear me out, I beg you, Louise." His words were said in a calm whisper, but she could sense that he was close to losing himself. "Please, my...my _friend._" Knowing it was useless to fight him, she stopped struggling and merely watched him, her beautiful eyes stormy and implacable. "Can we talk quietly?" to which she nodded once. Erik slowly removed his hand and took a deep breath. "You see how your Erik trusts you?" He gestured to a chair near the bed. "May I?"

She sat up and pushed hair away from her face, glancing at the open window through which he'd obviously entered her room. "Do I have any choice in the matter?"

"No."

"Where is Christine?" It was said coldly, and he cringed from her enmity.

"Christine is safe and unharmed and will remain that way. The...the death was an accident, Louise. I swear it. She was in the wrong seat and I deeply regret it. You believe me, d-don't you?"

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from her tight throat and she wished then and there to attack him with her nails. Launch herself at him from the bed and gouge out his devil's eyes. "She was in the wrong seat?" The laugh sounded just as mad as anything Erik could achieve, and startled, he stumbled back. "Oh, that makes it perfectly understandable then." More hysterical laughter, and he approached her to quiet her down before she woke Maria. As if sensing his intent, her giggles cut off with an eeriness that frightened him. "P-Perfectly understandable. It's _her_ fault you killed her, isn't it? She shouldn't have been so greedy for a better place to sit," and nearly came undone again.

He moaned as if in reply, and put a hand out to her in entreaty. "You _must_ believe me, Louise. It was not my intent to harm anyone," he whispered, his mind wanting nothing more than to turn turtle and hide away from the world- from this woman who now felt nothing but contempt for him.

She heard the plaintive note in his voice and brutally ignored it. "Why should I? It wouldn't be the first time you lied to me, is it?"

"No, it would not, but I am not lying now."

She wearily rubbed a hand across her face. "Why? What in heaven's name did you hope to accomplish by kidnapping Christine Daae and dropping a chandelier on a helpless woman?" Louise sat up straighter and stared in dawning comprehension at him. "You fancy yourself in love with her, don't you? You caused all this havoc for a chance to _make _that girl love you." Her voice had started to climb, and she clamped her mouth shut on her growing horror.

Erik was shaking his head and held his hands out to her. "No, no, no. I admit you have every reason to believe it of me, but it's not true. I had hoped to convince Richard and Moncharmin of my ultimatum by frightening them into it, and I needed the chance to work with Christine uninterrupted. That is all. That is all. She is so close, Louise- just a little longer and she will be ready for any role- any aria. It would have worked too, but I never figured on the woman getting closer to the stage. _I _bought up those tickets, you see."

"No. I _don't _see, Erik. This is your opera house that you labored over so faithfully, and this is what you hoped to attain? Bringing the very ceiling down on their heads? Anything could happen- and did. You took an awful chance and this is the result. You have murdered an innocent and taken another against her will. Return her at once, or I will go to the commissary."

His eyes flashed in the darkness and Louise knew she had gone too far, but she didn't care. "Either way I believe you will do just that thing, but it can't be proven, can it? I delivered a letter to the managers informing them that I, Christine Daae have taken a short holiday after the horrific events of-" he fished out his pocket watch and peered at the time, "-yesterday evening, and will return in a fortnight after my nerves have settled."

"Why, you've thought of everything, haven't you? Murder, mayhem and kidnapping. Quite an accomplishment, even for you. Am I next? Will they find me strangled in my bed?"

"After going to all that trouble to get you _away_ from the theatre? To keep you safe?"

"Safe?" Tiredly, she ran a hand through her hair and looked up at him. "Oh, I think you wanted me out of there, but safety wasn't all of it, was it, Erik? I think there is another reason and you won't admit it. You didn't wish for me to see your true nature at work- the monstrous lengths you will go to get what you want- what you crave. Perhaps you have had a change of heart, and are now entertaining the n-notion to silence me for good."

He leaned forward and regarded her strangely. "I would never harm you, Louise. Haven't I just _said _that? I swore it to you ten years ago."

"Such a gentleman to stand by your promises. Too bad you don't have any principles to go with them." She knuckled away tears, and numbly stared up at him. "My aunt is _fond _of you. She was frightened badly tonight. Doesn't THAT mean anything to you? She still believes you're a kind and decent man whom life has mistreated-" He made a sound deep in his throat at her look of disgust. "How very wrong she has been, don't you agree? Is Baudin on your payroll?"

He let out a ragged sigh. "In a way. He is intelligent, resourceful and diligent, but as you have no doubt noticed, he is also a hunchback. No place for him in a society that prizes perfection. He was hungry and snaring rabbits in the Bois to get by, so I found him a job in the opera house stables. He has a roof over his head and food in his belly- never enough for a questing mind, but it has to be enough when you are- different. Occasionally he does _errands _for me and I pay him. What's more, he does them with no questions asked."

He wearily straightened up. "Go to the gendarmes, my dear. It will make you feel better for it. But I must insist that Christine will not be harmed, and she will be returned to her home after a fortnight, ready to fulfill her duties as diva." He stood up to leave, and swayed a little as he saw the animosity in her hard eyes. Nevertheless, he left her with a warning. "I will protect my home in any way I can. I have traps salted throughout the cellars now, and they can cause injury and even death. Care to see how many are brought down? Your comte may unfortunately be one of them. Remember that, Louise."

"I _hate_ you."

She said it clearly and distinctly with no hesitation, and his soul cringed at the black despair those words dredged up. In that single moment, he would have taken the entire evening back and consigned Christine Daae and her heavenly voice to the devil.

He went slowly to the window and slipped a leg over the sill. "That is bitter news indeed," he replied softly, and turned back for one last look at her, his eyes molten gold. "I _love _you," and was gone.

* * *

**I told you to _clean _the chandelier, not drop it. Now look at the mess you've made. For your next trick, try putting it back where it belongs. _Or_ you could scoot on over to Munchkinland and drop a _house _on a wicked witch ;) Follow the Yellow Brick Road, oh my!**


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N This chapter is a little longer than usual. Okay, it's a _lot _longer, lol, but fortunately there _are _some line breaks ;)**

* * *

The lessons resumed the day after Christine found herself in the strange little house with no windows; singing for the man she once considered an angel. He was unfailingly polite to her, solicitous in every regard, providing her with all of her needs, and seeing to every comfort in exchange for the privilege of training her voice. What the mask hid of the man before her was as yet unanswered- was he a criminal hiding from the hangman's noose, or a man simply protecting a damaged countenance from curious stares? _Her_ curiosity, she had so far managed to suppress, but as she relaxed a little under his tutelage, she thought about it more often, having very little to occupy her time outside of lessons. The only thing he required of her, was that she listen to his every instruction concerning her instrument, and try though she might, she could not please him. She had been in his home for three days now, and already she longed for sunshine and the comfort of normality. She longed for Raoul.

She stood close to the upright piano and began her aria after a short run of scales. These practices were quite different from what she was used to; his eyes never leaving her, even as his hands continued to play accompaniment with that remarkable ability he possessed. He watched her sharply for the weakness in her posture or a hesitancy in her delivery, and that penetrating stare unnerved her, inevitably affecting her voice. What he was doing by holding her here against her will was wrong, but she wouldn't stand a chance pointing that out to him. She was very certain he already knew that- and did not care.

He sat at the piano, dark and faceless; a nothing man- making her guess at what he was thinking, what he was feeling. He was thin to the point of emaciation, and his great height made it appear even more so. Her eyes fell to his hands, fascinated as always by those long, white fingers that were admittedly graceful, and communicated so much in their movements, whether it was direction as she stood in place beside the piano, or the gestures he made as he tried to convey his thoughts to her. But his voice remained his most valuable asset. For Christine, it was sinfully rich and carried a wealth of emotion in its very timbre.

As their lesson progressed that morning, his impatience grew, and after one too many admonishments, he abruptly stood up. Nervously, she backed away and stuttered, "I-I'm sorry, Erik. I'm just a little tired. Could we stop for a while?"

He was set to berate her for her lackluster tone, as well as her sloppiness with pronunciation which often made him wince, but he stopped and ran a hand through his sparse hair in frustration, standing it on end. "This should have been a much better solution than instructing you through a wall. I realize now that this isn't the ideal situation either, Christine, and for that I beg your forgiveness, but this is more important than you know. I have risked much to bring you here." _I have surely lost my Louise because of it. _"You were making quite a bit of progress just a few short weeks ago, but now? Visions of becoming a vicomtesse have led you to forget what I have taught you."

"He was my childhood friend," she said defensively, "and we had much to reminisce about. That's all. I will try harder, I promise. But please, please _let_ me go."

"Let you go to become carried away by the boy's smiles and entreaties to play? No, you are better off here with me until I deem you ready to take the stage as you were meant. Then and only then will I release you."

"Who are you?"

"Someone who can bring your voice to the glory it deserves."

"Why?"

"Let me ask _you _a question, Christine. Is it your wish to become the greatest diva in the world? It was your father's dream for you, and it can be yours as well, but you must concentrate! You know it the same as I. The discipline to your craft is still sadly inadequate; if you would only persevere, you will _become _Marguerite, and the finest the Garnier has ever seen. But it will not be done by giving half measures." He glanced at her slyly, his eyes full of fake empathy. "What would your dear father think of your unwillingness to adhere to my teaching? This was his wish, or doesn't that concern you any longer?" and at the sullen shake of her head, "No? Then stop fighting me and you can return all the sooner to your life."

"I am not fighting you! How can I?" Her blue eyes became guarded, thinking he could read her mind now, for she _had _been holding back out of spite and she should have known he would perceive it very easily. Erik was a maestro.

He grunted and leveled his sharp gaze on the girl, those unholy eyes pinning her to the floor where she stood. "You fight me every step of the way with your very formidable passivity! Do you think I am unaware of this? It is in every note and every measure you under-sing. You are not so much flat, as unfeeling by lightening your instrument. You _know_ what is required of you, yet you hold back. Rest assured you are merely hurting yourself and your talent," he paused to let the words sink in, then shrewdly added, "but above all your father who envisioned this for you, his only child."

She stood there miserably unsure, wanting nothing more than to have it all. Erik was right. Her father's wish for her had never lost its importance, but seeing Raoul after all these years had been magical. She didn't want to end it with the young man. He was sweet and kind to her and always gentle, reminding her of the lovely golden days of Puerros-Guerric, but this man standing before her inspired too many conflicting emotions. Christine wanted simplicity and a home filled with sunshine and the sound of the sea at night lulling her to sleep. She owed her father his dream of greatness for her, while denying her own, and apparently it was two against one- her father insisted from beyond the grave, and this man as well, who seemed to already have one foot planted there. She sighed wearily. But he was an excellent teacher and she truly believed he could make her great. Once he did, she would sing a last aria for her father and follow her heart wherever it might lead.

"I'll stay," she said in a low voice.

He waggishly tilted his head. "What did you say, child? I'm afraid I didn't quite hear you," when he had heard her very well.

She raised her eyes to his, feeling a little more confident. "I said, I-I'll stay and work with you." She repeated it a shade louder. "I'll stay."

Erik smiled.

* * *

He cursed the fact that he had to find his way in the near darkness of the cellars, the only light seeping in was through the vents bringing fresh air into the massive building; that and the glow from the lantern he held in one hand. It was enough to show him the way. His steps faltered when he saw the body of water before him that would need to be crossed. He had made it this far, taking his time, well aware of what Erik might have set to go off and entrap him. Nadir Khan was well used to the Trap Door Lover's tricks. Along with tales of the ghost that inhabited this echoing space, were the rumors of a large black lake which hid monstrous fish, and eels as long as a man is tall. He had once scoffed at this; stories of these creatures were to say the least, fairy tales, but something did indeed exist in that oily lake, which he could attest to, and that was why he had no wish to again set foot in such an abysmal body of water. But no one had seen fit to look here for the missing girl, and after plucking up his courage, he proceeded to find a way down without killing himself in the process.

He stared into the darkness before him and squinted when he spied lights coming across the water. With a start, he realized it wasn't the innocent glow of lantern light approaching him, but the very man he was seeking. He watched with a healthy dose of trepidation as the Angel of Death rowed the last few feet to the tiny dock area and hopped out of the boat with his usual agility. Soon he was turning those unsettling eyes on him and he realized glumly- the masked man was not happy to see him.

"What do you want?" he said sourly. "I see your swim the last time you were here, didn't teach you a damned thing."

Nadir winced at this reminder of a month ago when he went exploring on his own in the lower cellars and found the little lake. He spied the boat sitting there, bobbing gently at the tiny pier, and had immediately decided to use it and find out for himself how far the lake stretched. He was startled when the boat began moving under its own power, and he quickly grabbed onto the gunwales and held on tightly. Tensely he sat there, helpless to do anything; he would not jump into that black water, but wait for an opportune moment to get to shore. He hadn't gone very far when he heard the loveliest music, sung in a lilting voice, but coming from below the little boat. It was so very sweet sounding and he leaned ever closer to hear it better, wanting only to find the source of the ethereal melody. But his ebullience quickly disappeared as he was pitched roughly out of the boat into the inky waters of the lake. Fear wrapped icy tendrils around him and Nadir soon found himself fighting for his very life. He was terrified when monstrously strong arms grabbed him tightly and pulled him beneath the churning water. Thrashing about, he had the presence of mind to reason with the demon intent on drowning him, and struggled in that iron embrace, screaming Erik's name and Allah's in the same tortured breath, even as the filthy water entered his nose and mouth and he knew he was about to die.

He came to on the rocky edge of the lake, weakly retching up water while a thoroughly soaked Erik sat calmly nearby watching him. He had let the Persian go that day, after eliciting a promise not to return.

He now nervously eyed the opera ghost. "Is this a bad time for you, Erik?"

"There is no good time, daroga. Especially when you are involved. State your business."

"How did you know I was here?"

"I am all-seeing and all-knowing, having watched you making a nuisance of yourself with everyone. You promised to leave me alone, so I extended to you the same courtesy, but now you have invaded my home- again. This is Erik's domain and he guards it zealously. You are at this moment in grave danger, and before I decide to throw you to the Siren, be so kind as to supply me with a reason to refrain from doing so." It was hissed in that soft, seductive voice that had been guaranteed to produce a bright thrill of fear in every man _or_ woman standing before that black robed figure, which in the rotted decadence of the Persian court, meant suffering and death. It, more than anything, brought back those horrific days, causing the hairs on his neck to rise. He had been present years ago when the creature was high executioner for the sultan of Mazanderan. Prisoners would quake as he regarded them with those hellish eyes, the condemned barely remaining upright when he pronounced their fate in that sibilant whisper.

The Persian sighed at this sullen behavior from a man whose very life he had saved. "You promised me years ago when I risked my life to save yours, that you would cease this mad need to punish the human race. Did you not tell me you would no longer seek to end lives? Was that a lie simply to let you continue to do just that? What have you done with Christine Daae? I know it was you that took her after you engineered the demise of that chandelier a fortnight ago, for it has the stamp of your work upon it. Do not deny it."

"_I?_" He stared unblinking at Nadir, mouth set in a grim line, and the Persian felt a small quiver of fear. Erik was dangerous, and ofttimes had descended into madness at the height of the rosy hours, but he now had the audacity to laugh coldly at the Persian with utmost confidence. "What makes you think I had anything to do with it? That chandelier was very worn, daroga. Very worn."

"And the young woman?"

"My guest," he said stiffly. "I have every right to see her in my own home."

"You had no right to force her to join you. There are those worried for her safety. I don't wish to insult you in any way, but I find it hard to believe that this young woman would come here willingly. I remember well the effect you had on the women of my country and I fear it is no different here. Perhaps if you-"

"And why do you find it hard to believe? Hm? Because I am hideous? Why? Tell me, I am listening."

He had no choice and told the truth. "Yes, you are, but that is not the worst of it. You are a murderer, Erik and can only stain the girl with your wickedness. Let her go. She can never love you, and has someone waiting for her that she does."

"Can never love- " He stopped suddenly and stared at the Persian in dawning awareness. Khan assumed an untruth, thinking him so desperate for love that he would kidnap a woman and hold her hostage. Well, he had done just that, but not for love, unless he counted love of her extraordinary instrument. That would surely be the case then, for he did indeed love _that_ bit of Christine Daae. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the Persian the truth, when the reality came crashing down on his head, and he nearly cried out in agony. Louise hated him now, for she had told him so. Nevertheless, he would never tell this man about her- ever. He would not open her up to Nadir Khan's insatiable curiosity about anything concerning Erik, and because of that and his need to justify his actions, he told a lie, for Khan would never believe the truth.

"She loves me for my own sake. Christine loves me and visits me whenever she wants. I don't keep her here against her will."

Nadir merely shook his head, and Erik stepped a little closer to him and smiled wickedly when he hastily stumbled back. "Just remember, I saved your life! When the sultan would have put your eyes out, I pleaded for you. When he ordered me instead to kill you, I got you away at great personal risk!"

The masked man regarded the Persian who had indeed spirited him away from Persia. "What is it you wish from me?"

"Christine Daae returned above," he said promptly.

"She can leave this place any time she pleases! Yes, and come back any time she pleases. I will prove it to you. Yes, I will prove it to you!"

"It is your duty to let her go, Erik."

He took exception to that. "My duty? It is my _wish_...my wish to let her go."

"I'll believe you when I see her returned to her life and those that love her."

"And then will you believe me, you Persian fool?"

"Yes."

"And no longer meddle in my affairs?"

"No."

"Very well, you shall discover it for yourself. Come to the masked ball and you will see that I tell the truth." He looked the Persian in the eye and Nadir dropped his gaze, relieved to be leaving unharmed.

"Tonight then."

* * *

The Garnier that evening carried a feeling of excitement and merriment rarely seen by the company. Tonight was all about having fun- flirting with the beau monde, getting drunk, or finding a place for a tryst in an empty room or dark corner. As Louise swept through the door on Philippe's arm and into the subscriber's rotunda, they brought with them the chill fingers of winter which was slowly tightening its grip on Paris. But cold winds were far from everyone's thoughts that November, as the masquerade ball commenced and the company relaxed and began to play in earnest.

Philippe kept his hand tightly over Sorelli's, and his eyes were hard put to stay off of her. She was a flamenco dancer, sultry and mysterious in her off-the-shoulder black dress. It fit snugly to her curves before flaring out at her slender hips in tiered rows of bright red and yellow flounces which fell to her strapped heels. Her hair was piled on top of her head, a fully blown red rose tucked into the strands, while long curls fell artfully loose to frame her face. A black domino trimmed with black lace completed her costume. The comte found his eyes drawn to key locations- her decolletage displayed her delicate collarbones to advantage, but his gaze inevitably dipped of its own accord to the inverted vee of her skirt, where an enticing bit of bare leg could be seen as she walked. Sorelli had outdone herself tonight- and every woman in the building. She looked delightful enough to eat.

Her escort that evening was arrayed in his usual formal suit of white tie and tails, his only concession to the party atmosphere being the plain black domino he wore. "You outdid yourself tonight, Phil. I wouldn't have recognized you," she said with a droll smile.

"Why, many thanks, my dear. That's quite a compliment coming from you," and he quickly pulled her to his side as a slender figure brushed past Sorelli wearing the filmy shirt and trousers of a harem girl. The pants were gathered in at the ankles, the sky blue silk shot through with silver thread, the costume doing very little to hide her supple form. A matching silk hijab covered much of her face, and the gentlemen attending that evening, followed her lithe figure across the room with eager eyes, picturing their own personal delights with the young woman.

Philippe sternly eyed the harem girl, then turned to Louise. "You had better stick close to me, my girl or someone will run you down," he murmured, ogling the enticing view of her breasts in the skimpy bodice, "or carry you off to a dim corner," and waggled his mustache, making her laugh.

The costumed figure abruptly turned around and doubled back, raising a corner of the hijab. Estelle winked saucily at the couple and leaned in toward Sorelli. "My apologies for nearly knocking you down, but I'm in a hurry to find me a gent just like the one you hooked, even if it takes all night to land him. Perhaps that red devil flirting with Marthe over there. She has no idea what to do with him, the silly wench," pointing to a corner where the other dancer was busily boring Satan with small talk, and Estelle winked at Philippe, nudged her friend and took off.

She restlessly made a quick circuit of the floor, not certain what she was looking for, until a tall man in a black cloak and slouch hat sidled up to her and bowed. "It has been a while, mademoiselle, but the hope was always there that we would meet again; under better circumstances, of course," and he doffed his hat, revealing a long, thin face, topped with a shock of brown hair. At least now she had a face to go with the pleasant voice. "May I introduce myself? Gilberte Caron, Mam'selle Taillier."

Estelle looked up into a pair of warm brown eyes that went very well with the engaging smile. She hadn't been wrong after all. A few minutes of time, and in the direst of circumstances, and she had only known that she wanted to meet him again. She smiled back and felt providence was smiling as well. "This _is_ a surprise, monsieur. But a very nice one at that."

* * *

They had watched as Estelle flitted across the room, and soon became engaged in conversation with a tall gentleman who had walked up to her. "I would say your friend has already had a bit too much wine," Philippe said with a slight smile. "Perhaps giving those dark corners a wide berth would be an excellent idea. At least until she sobers up."

Louise snorted. "You don't know Taillier. She searches out _all _the dark corners. She likes nothing better than to put her feet up and forget about the rest of us for as long as possible."

Automatically her mind conjured up a vision of amber eyes flashing at her in the warm darkness, and she worked hard to remove it. She hated him now- didn't she? Even after he had confessed his love for her, she was in denial of it. How can a man profess love of someone after committing acts of violence? Didn't those conflicting emotions cancel one another out? Louise had not gone to the gendarmes after all. The excuses she made to her over-worked conscience were more of the same concerning Erik- always telling herself she would do the right thing, and in the next instant turning a blind eye to his misdeeds. She had spent sleepless nights wondering why she hesitated to turn in a murderer. How many would die by his hand before she had enough? You promised him, her mind whispered in that sanctimonious voice that on occasion she despised. But she couldn't betray him because she loved...because she... Her mind stubbornly refused to go down that dark and dangerous road. Once again she successfully shut out that annoying internal mouthpiece that tried to tell her the impossible.

Raoul had already gone to the commissary and it led nowhere. Mifroid had interviewed many of them, and from the conflicting stories, hers included, the chandelier was ruled an accident and the case closed. According to the smug police inspector, there had been mass hysteria involved, due to the bizarre antics of the diva onstage and the extraordinary acoustics of the theatre which produced an imagined ghostly voice. It was simply an unfortunate mishap with the chandelier, and a mysterious entity was blamed where none existed. A ghostly voice imagined by scores of people? Louise had snorted in disbelief, and if she hadn't known better, counted Mifroid as being on Erik's payroll. Furthermore, he hadn't believed that Christine Daae was kidnapped, after a pair of gendarmes paid a visit to Mamma Valerius. The old lady showed them the note revealing that the young soprano was on a holiday for her nerves, and would return in a fortnight. Nothing more was to be done, and although Sorelli could have told the commissaire a much better tale of the opera ghost and the chandelier, she did not.

What stopped her was not something she was willing to ponder for very long, but the knowledge that she still felt loyal to her friend _after _he killed a defenseless woman, was playing havoc with her mind and sense of guilt. That and the fact that she had flung her hatred of him in his masked face. Her days since that night almost two weeks ago, had sapped her energy and smudged her eyes with shadows, for a night of unbroken sleep seemed beyond her most nights. As much as she longed to put thoughts of him aside, she found she couldn't do it.

They joined the merry throng as it made its way up the grand staircase to the interconnected galleries of the Avant and Grand Foyers where the ball was being held. They were surrounded by shimmering color, magnified by the interplay of gilded mirrors, lamps and the many candelabra, the sounds of gaiety amid the baroque atmosphere lending itself to the party atmosphere. The wealthy patrons hobnobbed with the singers, dancers and musicians of the Garnier, while waiters circulated the floor with trays of Champagne for the thirsty revelers.

Throughout the evening wine flowed unhindered and couples seeking fresh air and privacy, soon found themselves out on the openwork loggia viewing the lights of Paris. They would admire the Avenue de l'Opera which vied with the carpet of glittering stars in the sky, but in reality they wished only for the frenzied press of lips to another's, and a loving embrace.

A pair of harlequins approached them as they stood near a gold column. Louise knew the man wearing the white domino, but the brown haired woman he tugged behind him, left her guessing. "Quite a crush of people here tonight, Louise. Are you keeping this gentleman towing the straight and narrow?"

"Does he know of any other way to conduct himself, Raoul?"

The young man chuckled, and brought his companion forward. "Look who I found," and with a joyful laugh, reached out and pulled the black domino off Christine Daae's heart-shaped face. "She fooled you with that wig, didn't she? Christine likes to play dress-up. She was out of town just as Madame Valerius said, isn't that right, naughty girl? I have aged by ten years, I dare say!"

Christine merely nodded and looked around the large room, obviously ill at ease.

Sorelli smiled, feeling a vast relief that the girl was no longer in the fifth cellar. "Did you enjoy yourself while you were gone?" She was amused to see her tug the mask back into place and continue searching the revelers.

"Yes. Of course I did, but it's so good to be back." Out of curiosity, Louise started searching the crowded rooms looking for the same thing as Christine- a tall, thin figure who automatically drew stares whether he wanted them or not.

The comte stood surveying the woman who had his brother's heart and felt only a vague displeasure. He didn't approve of Christine Daae as Raoul's future vicomtesse. A light fling or even a mistress would be acceptable, but that wasn't his brother's intention. He wished to marry the girl, and already it was becoming more difficult to turn him from the notion.

Christine could feel the icy disapproval radiating from the stern-faced comte, and wanted only to flee with her lover to a place where they could indulge their passion for one another. Besides, she wanted to put as much distance between her and Erik before he was demanding her return to his dreary little home beneath the opera. Discovering where she had been kept for two weeks had been a shock, but it was indeed only one of many. She was sick of the window-less house and loathe to spend one more moment in his company. That's why she had borrowed the brown wig from the costume department, hoping to fool that sharp yellow gaze, at least for the evening. She shuddered as she recalled the sight which had met her eyes one week ago; the day her curiosity could no longer be quelled, and she snatched the mask from his corpse's face. It had been so easy to do; he had been working on her lesson for the next day while she sat reading on the sofa. As was usual for Erik, he became engrossed in his task, forgetting that she was even in the room. Putting down her book, she got quietly to her feet and crept up behind him, intent on finding out once and for all what manner of man existed beneath that black silk. Her hand reached out, and in one motion, ripped the mask away-

She could easily become lost in the arias he made her perform; the music was something she understood- the power and beauty of it could always move her. But the sight before her eyes was one that refused to leave her memory; she saw it whenever she closed her eyes- the face of death. His anger had terrified her, and for a split second she thought he might hit her, or worse, but with great effort he took himself off to his bedchamber and hid for the rest of that day and well into the next. By then she was tired and heartsore, wanting only to get away and spend her days with Raoul before going onstage as Marguerite in Faust. Erik had appeared late the following afternoon, once again masked, and continued their lessons as before, but she never forgot what was right before her eyes hidden by a simple piece of cloth. Then that very morning, a bell had rung in his home, and like a shot, he was out his door. When he returned a short time later, he had let her go, eliciting a promise from her to return that very night. She had given it, knowing to do otherwise would incite his wrath, but how to explain to Raoul she would have to leave him by midnight?

Since the disastrous evening of the chandelier collapse, Carlotta had refused to return after her _aria __of__ the toad_, and Erik was busily grooming his protege for the principal role. At times she wished only to lash out at him and scream for him to leave her be, but Christine realized that the quicker she could please him with her voice, the quicker she could get him out of her life. Against her will though, he continued to fascinate her in spite of her fear. She often wondered about the ruined countenance she had unfortunately seen, and a tiny suspicion grew into a larger one. Tales of the opera ghost had described a thin figure and skull-like visage- a frightening specter which took revenge on Carlotta and the managers by ruining the performance of Faust. Which meant she was getting voice instruction from the Phantom for _her _role in that very same opera. She shivered again, wanting only to find somewhere away from Erik for as long as possible.

With him in mind, she now tugged impatiently at Raoul's hand, pulling him away from the imperious comte and Louise. Her lover finally took the hint, and the young couple soon melted into the crowd of costumed revelers.

Philippe decided to forget about his stubborn brother for the rest of the evening, and in the spirit of the moment, swept Louise into a Viennese waltz, nicely executed by the chamber orchestra, hand-picked by Maestro Reyer for this night. She clutched Philippe's shoulder as his arm circled her waist, wanting only to forget everything- simply dance and drink champagne. She laughed gaily and sipped the bubbly wine, glass after glass, and if her smiles never quite reached her eyes, or her merry laugh was a trifle shrill, no one seemed to notice. As the evening progressed, she felt as though her enforced gaiety was succeeding, either that or the alcohol, until a hushed murmur broke out across the room. She became very still as the crowd parted around a tall figure dressed in scarlet. He was gruesome with his life-like skull mask, the hollow eye sockets and macabre grin causing a stutter of fear among the tittering crowd. But he was also magnificent in his sweeping hat with the lush red plume, and the immense crimson velvet cloak around his shoulders, trailing along the floor. He turned at that moment and Philippe chuckled in amusement. Embroidered on the costume's back were the words- "Don't touch me! I am Red Death stalking abroad!" he read aloud, and watched with interest as the man seized one reveler who got too close and painfully twisted his hand.

"Quite the costume, Louise. That fellow has too much time on his hands, I'd say."

_No, he doesn't. __He's __been very busy of late. _Her one-time friend would not simply blend in with everyone else; Erik much preferred to stand apart from the masses whether he would admit it or not. She found it difficult to take her eyes off of him, and while she helplessly stared, he turned around and looked in her direction. Louise took a step forward, then another, and Red Death chose that moment to turn on his heel and disappear from her view. Feeling the sting of tears, she turned to Philippe and grabbed his hand.

"I...it certainly is a crush of people, isn't it?" She took his arm and started through the crowd, numbly wondering why Erik always managed to upset her equilibrium. "Let's go find a seat and sit for a while, shall we?"

"Of course. I seem to have forgotten that you might not care to dance the night away as the rest seem wont to do."

They found some seats near the loggia where the air was fresher and settled in to enjoy the relative quiet. Louise observed the comings and goings of the multitude- the bright colors of the costumes adding to the gaiety, and she was surprised to see a man dressed much like Philippe, in formal tailcoat and trousers, but where the comte at least wore a domino, this gentleman had none. "There is that man again. I've seen him before, wandering in the theatre."

"Yes. I at least found out his name. It is Nadir Khan and he is making his home in Paris for a time. I have spoken briefly with him. He's a harmless enough fellow, and he does seem to enjoy all things having to do with the opera." He turned to her and gathered her hands in his. "Enough about him! I have something I would like to ask you, Louise, but now isn't the time or the place. Privacy will be required. Will you join me for dinner in three days time?"

She searched his eyes for the reason, but he simply smiled back, awaiting her answer. "Of course, Phil. I accept," and he squeezed her hands in reply.

Louise sat a few minutes with him until an acquaintance of the comte's came up to them and she excused herself. She threaded carefully through the noisy crowd and into the wide hallway intent on putting some distance between her and the din in the combined foyers. There were very few in this section of the opera house except for trysting lovers, and it was thankfully quiet as she made a much needed trip to the ladies' lounge. Her thoughts were pinwheeling round and round, scattering like so many startled birds, and the many glasses of champagne hadn't helped much either. She held the corner of a damp towel to the back of her neck and closed her eyes for a few minutes. She really didn't feel like partying anymore, and hoped to convince Philippe to leave before midnight. Which was just as well. He seemed a trifle weary himself; more than content to sit out any further dancing. With an unhappy sigh, she made her way back to the ball, never seeing the red-clad arm snaking out and latching onto her wrist, tugging her relentlessly toward the black maw of Box Six. She started to struggle, and lashed out seeking something solid to hit.

"I claim a dance, Louise, that is all. That is all," he whispered in her ear. His hand grasped hers gently, while his other arm circled her waist. "I would dance with you tonight, if you would allow it. My lovely senorita." His voice was soft and tender, and the tight ball of grief which had taken up residence in her chest began to unwind.

Against her will, she nodded and felt her traitorous hand grasp his fingers in return, as her other one crept up to his red-clad shoulder. He began moving them silently around the box in much shorter waltz steps; it could barely be called dancing as their bodies swayed together in the small space, both silent, neither wanting to spoil the moment as they each unwittingly took strength from the other. He rested his masked cheek against the top of her head, feeling content and at peace for the first time in weeks.

Their steps gradually slowed until they had stopped altogether, and Erik pulled her closer as he shoved the skull mask upward and lowered his head. It never occurred to her that the mask was no longer in place until she felt the touch of his lips in her hair, and her fingers clutched at his shoulders to steady herself. Ah, she thought- no skull mask, but the real one. Her arms rose to push him away, but dreamlike they instead slid up his chest to twine sinuously around his neck. Her lips became a part of the conspiracy as well, when they blatantly nuzzled against his throat forcing a groan from him.

She blocked out everything else, shutting her mind down for the moment and not allowing unwelcome thoughts to intrude. Disconcerted at her acceptance of this insanity, she made a move to step away from him, and found her traitorous body moving even closer until they were molded tightly together. She felt the sharp angles of his spare build- that, and his very obvious desire, pressed as it was against her. When he kissed her forehead, she had all good intentions to object to the feel of it on her skin; that fervent touch which then moved from one cheek to the other, his cool lips branding her with heat. When he at last brushed his mouth hesitantly to hers, instead of protesting his unwelcome advances, her mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in.

Her willpower gone, she wasn't sure if it was the glasses of champagne loosening her inhibitions or something else which had lain dormant for years, reaching out at long last and asserting ownership of what had been hers for the taking all along. She found herself kissing him back with desperation, and he groaned again when Louise's fingers worked themselves through his hair, her caresses becoming bolder, her hand managing to dislodge his plumed hat. She smiled even as her mouth was being plundered. I knocked his hat off after all, she thought irreverently.

His kiss had been shy at first, but eagerly gained confidence as they stayed locked together, his bony hands coming up to frame her face. No one had ever touched him like this, as her hands now worked there way beneath his coat and slid up his back, stroking and clutching him feverishly- it was nearly overwhelming his senses, as his heart tried to pound its way out of his chest. At last, his heart cried out in triumph- her lips beneath his, and he knew real joy for the first time in his life, his mouth moving with growing surety and ardor across hers. He was eager for the feel of the tender skin just beneath her jaw, the beating pulse at the base of her throat- her lips; truly, his wish was to kiss her everywhere. He leaned back slightly, and felt the pull of male pride when she made a slight noise of protest, demanding the return of his mouth to hers. His shaking hands moved slowly down her flanks, stopping at the sweet curve of her backside, and tugged her tightly against him. She raised one slender leg, sliding it around his hip, tugging him even closer, close enough to melt into his flesh- one into the other. Desire, hot and sweet burned through him, wanting nothing more than to sink into her heat and lose himself. _Never let you go...never let you go...never..._

He bent his head and put lips to the fragrant hollow of her throat. "We can get past this, Louise. I love you! It needn't end, you know. I've missed you so very much. So very, very much. You can learn to love me! You wil see," he whispered against her mouth. "Please, _please _give me the chance to make this right." His voice was hoarse and pleading, but a warning had fired off in her brain. Erik decided he needed her lips beneath his again, and lowered his head back to this wonderful nirvana, but Sorelli was already drawing away from him, the alarm having become a cacophony of sound, and getting through at last.

Her body was on fire with pleasurable sensations it had never felt before, and she wanted nothing more than to continue the journey to its inevitable conclusion. Her conscience however, had something else entirely in mind, and it won the battle between fleshly desires and morality. Hating herself for what she was doing to him, she pushed at his chest, trying to put some distance between them. "How, Erik? Tell me how we can get past the fact that you killed a woman and kidnapped another? Tell me _how _I can erase that knowledge from my mind, for I don't see any way around this! You're a murderer and I can't live with myself for allowing you to remain unpunished for it!"

He had become very still as he watched her face change from one of desire for him- _him _by God!- to one of sorrow and guilt. "Then why do you?" he replied raggedly. "I wouldn't have you feeling guilt for something _I_ did."

She spun around and moved a ways from him before uttering, "Well, I _do_! As though I had stood beside you and helped drop that chandelier! I feel like your accomplice, and it's killing me!" His heart dropped into his stomach when he heard a muffled sob. He moved to touch her, and she stumbled back from him. "No! Keep away from me!" She turned to leave, and Erik, having none of it, clamped a hand on her wrist and held on despite her abhorrence for it.

"You _will_ listen to me, Louise. If only for this last time. I never meant to have you get caught up in my misdeeds. Never did I wish you harm in any way." His happiness had vanished to be replaced by its exact opposite, and the gamut of emotions he had experienced in these short moments had him teetering on a precipice that would only take a small nudge to send him over.

"I-I don't have time for this, Erik," she said, yanking her arm from his firm grip. Numbly, she regarded his slumped shoulders and defeated air, refusing to give in to the persistent urge to pull him back into her arms. "I gave you my word that I would never give up your secrets, and I stand by that, but for the love of God, please don't cause anymore trouble!" She was slowly backing away from him, the sorrow in his eyes matching hers. "I have to go find Philippe before he...b-before he comes looking for me."

The mention of the comte rallied him like nothing else could. His jealousy of de Chagny had him straightening up and staring hard at Louise. "You are still living in that particular fantasy, are you not? Your comte will get down on bent knee, gaze up at you with limpid eyes and say those four all-important words." He sighed harshly, feeling the edges of his sanity beginning to fray. His pupils had dilated with desire, their heavy lids half shut, as he contemplated the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, swallowing hard as the lust ran hot and thick through his veins. He contemplated for a second forcing her here and now, even going so far as to reach out for her again, mentally deciding whether to lay her down on the floor or take her up against the wall. But he had sworn a vow years ago to never harm her, and he would do his utmost to stand by that promise. The hope which had expanded his narrow chest just moments ago, now lay in pieces at his feet and the resultant rage built.

"He will offer you nothing but a nest to put his little bird in, and visit as often as he may before going on with the life he keeps completely separate from his paid whore!"

The words cut her to the quick and two bright spots of color flamed in her cheeks. "Why you...you bastard!" She seethed with anger and wished she had something hefty in her hand to throw at him. "You think you know everything about the beau monde and Philippe especially. You. know. nothing!" Anger coursed through her and she lashed out at the one who had brought it on. She wanted to hurt him and leave him bleeding on the floor, and for that reason she uttered words that would shatter Erik and indeed leave him bleeding- quite literally.

"I have been invited to a very private dinner in three days time. My aunt will not be attending that evening, for the comte wishes to discuss something which requires privacy. It's quite possible it's those four little words, Erik that you keep insisting he will never say to me." She took a deep, shuddering breath, galled beyond endurance as she nearly always was with this man, and in the next instant broke his heart. "If he asks me to be his wife, my answer will be yes," she lied. "Then you may wish me happy, old friend!"

Shocked silence followed this declaration and her heart cried in sorrow and shame that she had just wounded him unbearably, but before a full minute had passed, Erik recovered yet again. Shaking from hurt and anger, he nevertheless kept himself standing upright, when all he wanted was to curl into a ball of misery and hide.

"You lie," he whispered, staring intensely at her while the rage bubbled through his veins. "You lie," in an instant going from gentle lover to a spurned one, and Sorelli stumbled away from him as he took a lurching step toward her. "You're lying to me, that's all. Damn you for a conniver, Louise! You are mine. _**Mine!**_" he shouted fiercely, his voice spiraling upward as madness fought to consume him, and she forced herself to look into his eyes. What she saw there was quite simply, her death by his hand.

His lips had peeled back from his teeth and his eyes held more than a touch of insanity as he contemplated her death. Calmly and coldly, he reasoned it out- carry her off to the home they had once shared a lifetime ago. He couldn't keep her there- she already despised him. No. He would strangle her and stop her from marrying another and then he would end his own life. He would take a slow-acting poison, and with Louise in his arms where she belonged, remove them both from the living world. There was room enough for two in his coffin. He laughed to think of her reaction to it all those months ago, and now she would spend eternity inside it with him- her devoted Erik. Louise whimpered at the sound of his unhinged glee and closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of him as he came closer. Erik contemplated their demise and was strangely comforted by it, but the sane part of his mind rejected it just as quickly and stopped before his hands could reach for her; just before he took her mouth in a searing last kiss. If he touched her now, there would be no stopping him. Promise be damned.

He shook his head, feeling the jolt of his muddled thoughts, crowded in with the black anger which was urging him to take what he wanted. He would never harm her, would he? _Could _he? No matter that she had just flayed him alive. He wanted to lie in her arms and wail out his pain and despair to her, for only she could make it right again. Before his descent into madness could harm what he loved so desperately, he turned and fled, leaving the shattered pieces of his heart behind with the one who had broken it in two.

She put a hand out to him, hurt beyond words, but afraid to call him back. He had been willing in that one single moment to murder her with his bare hands. She had seen her death in his killer's eyes- had been quite literally afraid for her very life. Once again he had called upon his iron control and averted disaster. Erik was no doubt still dangerous, and she wondered if he would find another to vent his fury on. Louise, feeling apathetic and indecisive, let him go and her fate was sealed along with his.


	28. Chapter 28

Rehearsals were moving forward for Faust, and the company was getting short tempered and anxious with only a handful of days left before the first performance. Everyone remembered the last time it was staged; Carlotta doing her rendition of a frog, the stentorian voice which still echoed in the heads of many, and the rampant panic caused by the magnificent chandelier crashing into the auditorium. The reminder was there every day simply by looking up at the great hole in the ceiling where it once hung. Work had gone forth for its replacement, salvaging what they could from the old one, but things of that nature took time and temporary lighting had been installed in the interim.

The dancers of the corps de ballet were searching all over Paris for their own personal rabbit's foot, or any symbol guaranteed to bring them good luck and keep evil at bay. Those that couldn't find one, made sure to touch the horseshoe kept in plain view on the desk near the door keeper's box every morning without fail. The superstitious denizens of the Garnier were seeing signs of portent in the most trivial of occurrences, and adhering to every custom concerning bad luck. One unfortunate chorus member, a second soprano, was heard whistling a jaunty tune, and viciously slapped for it by an alto. Estelle rolled her eyes at this and told Sorelli that _everyone _knows whistling in the theatre is not permitted. Likewise Reyer was having trouble with his musicians, who before entering the pit, solemnly approached the ghost light center stage and touched it lightly while crossing the fingers of the other hand. The maestro watched all of this with a look of disbelief on his face; the entire opera house was under siege at the very thought of another catastrophe, and he eyed them all severely, while surreptitiously fondling the rabbit's foot in his trouser pocket. One could never be too careful.

Louise had just changed into her dress after rehearsal, and was slipping into her coat, when there was a tap on the door. She was pressed for time, having been invited to dinner with Philippe in his home and needed to get ready for it. She was unprepared upon opening the door to find Christine standing there. "Please, may I come in?"

She was about to say no, when she took a closer look at the girl's face, and feeling alarmed, opened it wider and invited her in, motioning for the young woman to have a seat. Christine looked up at her from the sofa, nervously twisting her hands, now wishing she hadn't come here. "I need your help, Louise. _We_ need your help."

She closed the door and reluctantly sat down beside the other woman. "Who is _we_?"

"Why, Raoul and I, of course." She paused as if debating on whether she should continue, but whatever had propelled her this far, made her speak up now. "We are leaving after opening night of Faust; r-running away, a-and we can't do it alone. Raoul wants to go right now, but I need to be there one last time and sing. I-I promised someone I would."

"Who?" Louise's heart leaped into her throat.

Christine merely sighed and shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. What does, is the two of us getting away. Philippe is watching his brother like a hawk, and Er... um- " Christine took a deep breath. "We need your assistance in keeping him occupied until we're gone. I know it's a lot to ask of you, and for all I know, you might even tell the comte what I say here," she glanced up and met Louise's eyes, "but I don't think you will. Was I wrong?"

Sorelli met her challenging stare with a slight smile. "No. You weren't wrong. I happen to know that Philippe isn't exactly glowing with approval at your attachment to one another, and that's made him a little difficult, but it doesn't mean he's a bad man. He's one of the nicest men I know."

"But in this instance you don't agree with him?"

The older woman shrugged. "He wants what he thinks is best for Raoul, and I can't fault him for that. But it's not necessarily what's right for him. Or you," she added. "I don't think Philippe has ever felt true love before and he cannot comprehend it now. He's also a stickler for the de Chagny place in society, and even though he's wrongheaded about it, he wishes for a better marriage for his brother."

Christine puzzled, grasped only one thing Sorelli had said. "Why, Louise, the comte loves you, so why _wouldn't_ he understand how Raoul and I feel?"

"In his own fashion, yes, I think he does, but not in the mind-numbing way that you imply."

"You may tell me to mind my own business, but...do you love _him_?"

Louise said nothing for a moment, wondering the very same thing. Her affection for Philippe was always there- he was kind and considerate, and she enjoyed his company. But she felt the very same about Maria; it was love of a certain kind, but it wasn't that all-consuming passion that could lift a body up to Heaven's gate, and in the next instance topple that joy to the deepest of despair. The brutal honesty she eventually came around to when dealing with her emotions, didn't fail her now.

"No."

Christine let out the breath she'd been holding. "Will you help us?"

"If I say yes, understand that I won't lie to him to aid your cause. But for what it's worth, I'll do whatever I can to see you both happy."

The girl grabbed Sorelli's hands in hers and squeezed them gently. "Thank you, Louise, oh, thank you!"

"Christine." She searched for the right words. "How is...are you continuing your lessons with your teacher?"

She withdrew her hands from Louise's and looked sharply at her. "Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

"No real reason, I suppose. Opening night is so close, I just wondered if y-you were still receiving instruction."

"Louise-" The girl paused, not certain what she wanted to say..._how _she wanted to say it. "Do you _know _Erik? For he is most certainly aware of you."

This caught the other woman by surprise, but she said calmly, "No. I haven't had the pleasure," and stared back at the young soprano, working to school her face into friendly interest. She wasn't happy lying to Christine, but she felt safer keeping her knowledge of Erik to only a few. She laughed weakly. "Now it is my turn to ask, why do you wish to know?"

"He mentioned you to me not so very long ago. Several times, in fact. He spoke of you with...with...affection-" It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Sorelli about the chandelier and her suspicion that her teacher had engineered the whole thing. Her teacher, the opera ghost. Raoul believed her. Her head was spinning with all that had taken place since she found herself living with a mad genius. Not much longer, though, and she would be away from everything having to do with him and the theatre. Away from the ignoble _and_ the sublime, for Erik was both. She decided to say nothing more, for in all probability the wall had ears.

Louise inwardly winced, but nonetheless continued the charade. "You are mistaken then, for I know nothing of the man. Perhaps he was only showing admiration for my dancing." S_tomped on any cockroaches lately?_

Christine was emphatically shaking her blonde head. "No. It wasn't your performances," and with one more searching look, she rose to her feet and went to the door. "No matter. Keep your secrets. We all have them, don't we?"

Erik did too.

The night of the masquerade she had waited nearly an hour for him in her dressing room. She was punctual...he was not. It had occurred to her to simply leave; walk out the door and go home, but by the time he had finally arrived, it was too late. He had entered the room, and she could tell from the start that something was wrong. Gone was the proud carriage, the once unyielding shoulders; they were now slumped and appeared beyond weary. More telling though, were his eyes when he raised them briefly to hers. The crazed look in them had frightened her, and she timidly followed him to his home, at times nearly running to keep up with his long strides, afraid to draw undue attention to herself as the silence spun out between them. Upon arriving there, he left her standing in the parlor while he made a brief trip to the kitchen, returning with a nearly full bottle of scotch. He had halted and blinked at her in surprise, as though seeing her for the first time.

"Go to bed, Christine," he had growled, and continued on to his own bedchamber.

She had cringed at the mixture of misery and hostility in that look...the naked despair, and done as he ordered. She had lain there for the longest time in the stillness of the little house, staring heavy eyed at the ceiling, as she pictured every single one of the floors above her head pressing inexorably down on her, making her feel puny and inconsequential. At last falling asleep, she was jolted awake by the first object crashing into his bedchamber door. She huddled into her blankets with fear, the noise becoming louder as everything loose in his room was smashed in a fit of rage. She was terrified and lay trembling in her bed until it at last grew silent again, and wondered if the assault on his possessions was over; no doubt it was...he had surely run out of things to break. After a tense thirty minutes, Christine began to relax, and feeling it safe enough, got out of bed. She had crept down the hall, pausing outside his door, her hand reaching for the doorknob, only to freeze when she heard his voice on the other side of the panel cry out a name, the mournful sound of it touching something inside of her. She prepared to open the door- and stopped dead. To do what? Give him comfort? What if his face was exposed? That horror of a face, and she trembled at the mere thought of it. It was not a good place to be at that moment in time; his voice had been slurred and filled with sorrow. He was no doubt drunk, and to Christine, that meant trouble for anyone foolish enough to confront him. She wisely turned and scurried back to her bedchamber, locking the door before climbing into bed. As she burrowed beneath her blankets in the quiet dark, she pondered the name she had heard him utter with such longing.

Louise.

The next morning he fixed her breakfast as usual, and continued her lessons with hands that shook a little, his eyes bloodshot and refusing to meet hers for much of the day. She wasn't very surprised, when on more than one occasion, his fingers stumbled over the keys, producing sour notes which hung jarringly in the silence which followed. The painful lesson at last concluded, he turned to her. "You are free to leave, Christine. I will, however await your return here tomorrow for further instruction...as you will every single day until the curtain rises opening night." He stared at his hands...at the barely perceptible tremor, and clenched them into fists. "You still have your greatest role to perform and I expect you to remember all that I taught you." His manner was quiet and remote. Polite and aloof. Hopeless.

"Yes. I promise, Erik."

She couldn't get out of there fast enough.

She now went still for a moment, looking at the floor as though she found the tasseled rug of great interest, then glanced up at Louise. "Remember when I thought he was an angel? An angel. How very silly! I have seen him for myself, and it is not Heaven from which he arrived," she said with a shudder. "I really _must _be going. Thank you for hearing me out, and I promise to be in touch with you very soon." She hesitated, one slender hand resting on the doorknob. "You have an ardent admirer, Louise," and with that, was gone, leaving Sorelli to wonder just what Erik had revealed to the young woman.

She sat alone in the growing silence of the opera house. She hadn't seen Erik in the three days since he fled from her on the evening of the masquerade- after the very revealing moments they shared. She had waited in the box that night until her shaking stopped, and she felt able to face Philippe without swollen eyes and a red nose. But as she lay in her bed waiting for sleep to come, she could no longer deny to herself what it was like stepping into his arms- it felt like coming home.

"Stop it, Louise. Coming home indeed," and she chuckled without humor. She pressed a hand tightly to her mouth when the laugh became a sob- she refused to take that line of thought any further. They had been friends- only that, and even the friendship was over now. God alone knew of what else Erik was guilty, and his anger that night had nearly spilled over into something else. That no one had been harmed was a vast relief, for every time he committed a wrong, the guilt _he_ should have felt, rebounded on her ten-fold. She could no longer reconcile herself to his crimes.

She put her head back and closed her eyes, needing to get up and get out of there. She had a dinner to attend, but for the life of her, she found it hard to move. She would like to go home, crawl into bed and curl up with Monsieur Erik. She snorted, wondering what Maria would say if instead of the old cat lying on the bed with her, Erik St. Clair stared back at her with those eyes of liquid gold. She couldn't imagine why she had ever considered them disturbing. They were quite lovely really. Amber. Yellow with shadings of orange, even a hint of red. Odd, yes, but so expressive. She made a sound of disgust. "Get out of my head, old _friend_. You are no longer welcome."

She rubbed at her temples, trying to dislodge the headache beginning to take root there. "As long as you're not killing or kidnapping someone, Louise doesn't want to think about you! She's tired of witnessing the mayhem you create every time you want something." She snickered, and it became a cackle, not sure when she had picked up _this_ bizarre habit of his. "Maybe you do deserve each other; you're just as delusional as he, and if you're not careful, you'll both find yourselves living in Charenton for the criminally insane. You _are _protecting a murderer," and clamped her mouth shut on more inappropriate laughter.

Her uneasy mirth ended abruptly, and she couldn't help but wonder if aiding Christine and Raoul was such a wise idea. What help she could actually be was debatable, but she had given her word to Christine and she would try. If Philippe ever found out her duplicity, it would be over between them as well. Someone should get some happiness out of this. _Where had that come from? _She yawned tiredly, rubbing the heel of a hand against her forehead and got to her feet. She shrugged into her coat and decided to ride home instead of walking.

She got to the street, where a lone hired carriage sat, and raised a hand to it, picking up her pace. She reached the door at the same time as a tall figure did, and looked up in surprise.

"Mademoiselle Sorelli. Allow me," the man intoned in a deep voice, and opened the door for her.

"Thank you, Monsieur- ?"

He removed his oddly shaped hat and sketched a bow in her direction. "Nadir Khan."

"Of course. I have seen you going about the Garnier, monsieur. You seem to have a love for the theatre, do you not?"

"Yes, very much so. You are always a reason for returning, I might add. A delight to watch in any role you choose to portray."

Louise dipped her head in acknowledgement and gestured to the carriage. "Would you agree to sharing it, Monsieur Khan? I am only a few blocks from here. No need to wait for another."

"Very kind of you. Yes, I would like that."

As the carriage pulled away from the curb, the Persian turned to Louise. "I suppose you have been busy preparing for the next production then?"

"Always. One never rests in the theatre," she said with a slight smile.

"Even the ghost?"

Sorelli heard a note in the man's voice which piqued her interest. "I'm afraid some of us have more imagination than others, Monsieur Khan, for there is no ghost. Theatre people are a superstitious lot and see things where nothing exists."

"Oh? I was under the impression he has caused quite a bit of havoc, even going so far as to drop a chandelier on a poor woman's head, as well as stealing a soprano right out from underneath everyone's noses. You and I both know that is not the work of a spirit, but a man whose threats extend to murder."

Louise regarded him in the dim light, trying to gauge his real interest. If she didn't know better she would assume he was interrogating her. It was obvious that he'd finally got around to her; the man was always underfoot asking questions and skulking about, even going so far as to enter the cellars. _Have you met __our resident ghost__, Nadir Khan?_ "I have no idea what you're trying to discover, monsieur, but you seem to be under the misconception that I know something about this... _phantom_ of the opera? You obviously know more than I do. I am merely a poor dancer with very little time left over to search for a man pretending to be a ghost. The gendarmes have already investigated the occurrence with the chandelier and judged it to be defective. As far as someone taking advantage of the situation, that has yet to be proven."

The cab pulled up in front of her building and the Persian quickly alighted to hand her down. Sorelli hoped her smile was pleasant. "It has been a pleasure speaking with you, monsieur. I hope your evening is a fine one," but he held on to her fingers a moment longer.

"Watch yourself, mademoiselle, for your opera house does indeed have a curse upon it, but we did not recognize him as a ghost then. In my country he was known as Abu-Uzraeel. The Angel of Death." With that stark admission, he swung himself back into the carriage and the driver set the horses in motion once again.

_Angel of Death? _"Why doesn't that surprise me?" she muttered, and went inside.

* * *

He had climbed up to the French doors on the second story using a nearby tree part of the way, then jumped the gap of four feet over to the balcony. He hung briefly by his hands, then swung himself up onto the balustrade, gripping it tightly for purchase and landing catlike on the balls of his feet. He was on the north side of the de Chagny residence, and his lip had curled in disgust to see so much house for only two people. No doubt it held an army of servants to do the comte's bidding as well. He would have all of them running to and fro on such an important night as this. One doesn't become engaged every day of the week. A cold chuckle slipped out of his mouth, and he tested it for sanity. Not so much of it left now, he reflected, feeling oddly detached from the workings of his own mind, but rational thinking had always been a liability anyway.

He had already made a circuit around the house and saw no one except for servants, but he was absolutely certain Louise was inside, for he had watched the comte's coach drive through the large gate from the street, and deposit her in front of the house earlier in the evening. He had held his breath when the driver assisted her down, and gazed at the vision she made in the moonlight. She was wearing a gown of shimmering gold and the light struck its satin folds before sliding off, his eyes then climbing to her dear face and lingering there.

She had paused on the sidewalk and before going inside, turning her head first one way then another as though searching for something. _Someone? _He willed her to look at him; he would not speak to her; the time for that was past, but he wanted Louise to feel his presence there in the shrubbery- he _needed _her to know he was watching her walk into that house and ruin both of their lives. He snorted. Not that he had ever had much of a life to ruin, but he had considered it a full one with Louise returned to him where he could talk with her. Laugh with her. _He_ could make Louise laugh- he had marveled at something so simple, yet so satisfying to him. He even sat down to dinner every so often with her and Maria just like any other man. He had held her close for a time, and she accepted his kisses as though eagerly sought. But his obsession with a heavenly voice had spelled the end of that. "Louise-" The moan left his mouth and rose mournfully into the cool night air, a mere whisper of sound barely heard.

"Who's there?" Her voice was pitched low, hardly daring to think that someone was watching her. "Erik?" He shoved a fist against his mouth, not trusting himself to remain silent. Finally, she hunched her shoulders as though warding off a chill, and continued her journey to the front door and went inside. A harsh breath escaped him, as she left him behind and committed herself to another man.

On the balcony now, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wondering why he felt the abject need to torture himself by viewing her happiness with Philippe de Chagny as they pledged their lives to one another. Leaving him alone once more. He wearily shook his head, staring into the room in front of him. He wasn't certain what he was searching for; a man and woman, naked bodies entwined upon a soft bed? If he found them in such a situation, would he kill de Chagny and take Louise? He would be considered less an opera ghost and more of a Don Juan. Two kidnappings? He laughed, and the sound of it didn't seem quite right. Don Juan _not _so triumphant, and he snorted another laugh until he recalled the dream he had of Louise in his arms- giving herself to him. It would never happen now; instead he faced a future as bleak and loveless as his past, and an icy chill settled over Erik, leaving him gasping. He forced his teetering mind back from the black chasm opening before him, and instead, observed the room. It was a large bedchamber, and at the moment it was occupied by someone lying amid a tangle of blankets. Curious now, he got closer to the doors which were shut tight. He quietly turned one of the knobs, opening the door a crack, and paused for a moment, his ears attuned for sounds from the bed. With one skeletal finger, he pushed the door open further, then hesitated again. When all remained still, he opened it wide enough to slither through, and crept across the floor to stand silently, watching the man on the bed as he restlessly tossed.

Raoul suddenly bolted upright and stared frantically around the room, crying out when his eyes alighted on the hellish sight of glowing yellow eyes. It was the demon of which Christine spoke; the man named Erik who had carried her off to his lair, forcing her to stay there and sing for him. She had told him he was dangerous and was capable of killing for what he wanted- that they needed to flee, not only from her teacher, but from Philippe as well. His brother was dead-set against his involvement with the singer, and he hated the confrontations which sprung up between them on a regular basis anymore. He decided the surest way to marry Christine would be to simply do it, and return with the deed already accomplished. Philippe would come around eventually and learn to love his new sister-in-law, but the idea of deserting his home and angering his brother was wearing him down.

He rubbed at his eyes and took a shuddering breath. "Who's there?" unwittingly repeating Louise's words from earlier. But the eyes were gone, and looking around the room, it seemed the creature had disappeared, or maybe he'd never been there in the first place. He was only being fanciful. His brother had taken one look at him earlier that day and sent for the doctor, who had prescribed bed rest for the exhausted young man. Raoul knew the problem stemmed mostly from his brother's refusal to see Christine as the perfect wife for him. That and the specter of the Phantom, who could pop up anywhere, even Raoul's own bedchamber it would seem. No one had believed him about the creature who lived below the theatre in the damp and darkness, least of all Commissaire Mifroid who had declared the chandelier falling to be the result of a defect. Philippe, shrugging off the voice that he himself had heard with hundreds of others, now denied it as well, insisting Raoul be examined for brain fever, thinking his mental processes falling apart. He took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand across his face, relaxing as he felt the cool breeze hitting his overheated skin. He would lie back down and try to-

_Breeze? _He stared at the open door which had been closed when he got into bed that afternoon, and saw beyond it what he was desperately willing himself not to see. The eyes had blinked into existence once more, seeming to float outside on the balcony. Anger pushed his fear aside, and rage erupted in him at this invasion of his home by this...this _thing. _He quickly turned to his night table and fumbled the drawer open, reaching inside and removing the loaded pistol he kept there. Not hesitating, he swiveled his torso around and aimed at the two candle flames hovering in mid air and fired twice in quick succession. Satisfaction was a savage joy in his chest when the eyes again winked out. He was still staring out the open door when he heard sounds outside his bedchamber door, and his brother entered the room, throwing open the door so violently, it banged off the wall, removing a divot of plaster.

"What in hell-?" he exclaimed as he approached the bed to see his brother sitting up, holding a pistol and staring out the french doors.

Raoul lowered the gun, the barrel still warm from the shots fired. He nodded toward the doors. "I just shot the Phantom. He was on the balcony and I shot him."

The butler and another male servant had entered the room with Philippe, and together they approached the doors and looked out on the balcony- and saw nothing. The comte pushed the door wider and stepped outside to have a look around, startled to find blood spattered here and there on the stone floor. Quite a bit of it. He followed it to the drainpipe that was attached to the side of the house, marveling that any animal could go straight up it in such a manner. He glanced over his shoulder at Raoul who had just joined him. "There's your intruder, brother. You got a piece of him, but no human could climb straight up like that. It's an impossibility. You just shot a cat."

The younger man wearily shook his head, knowing it was useless arguing with Philippe. Looking up at the pipe where he could see more smears of blood appearing black in the wan light, he realized it _was _nearly impossible to believe such a thing, but refused to budge from what he had seen. Those eyes had been full of intelligence and awareness. "Not a cat," he said finally. "A demon."

* * *

Earlier that evening, Philippe had ushered Louise into the parlor, closed the doors and took her into his arms. "You look enchanting tonight," and as his mouth lowered to hers, she couldn't stop the comparison between a kiss that held no fire, to one that could melt her very bones. In a desperate attempt to wipe out the feel of those thin lips which had only left her wanting so much more, she kissed Philippe back in a panic. _I do not love you, Erik. Get out of my head, damn you! I don't love you...I don't love you...love you. I-I love you so much._

She suddenly pulled out of the comte's arms and put a hand to her cheek, striving for control. It was a terrible time to finally admit to something she had really known all along. But she wouldn't linger on it. It meant absolutely nothing to her. Love can die. It needn't last if she wouldn't allow it, for there was no future in loving such a man. She sank down onto the sofa, a rare feeling of gloom hounding her thoughts.

Philippe went to a tall rosewood cabinet and removed a bottle of wine and two glasses. Pouring each of them a drink, he brought one to Louise and sat down beside her. "I hope you're hungry. Chef has prepared all of your favorites tonight."

She took a sip of her wine and set the glass down. "I happen to be famished! I ate very little today."

The comte took her hands in his. "Then we shall try to rectify that condition soon. I know you are wondering what I wished to discuss with you, my dear, so I will end your formidable woman's curiosity." He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers. "I extend to you an invitation as my guest, to come away with me to Monaco. If you have never been there, then you are in for a treat, Louise; it is truly a lovely part of the world, and you will enjoy it immensely." He put up a shapely hand. "You seem a little thunderstruck, but I assure you there will be no undue persuasion on my part. Take your time to think it over." He looked earnestly at her and said softly, "Although, I sincerely hope the answer will be yes."

Louise regarded him numbly, trying very hard to look enthused. Why couldn't she be enthused? Here was a handsome and noble man, offering to take her to the French Riviera, one of the most beautiful of locales, to dine in splendor every day, walk the white sand beaches, and go sailing in the bay. Spend the evenings dancing in a setting worthy of kings; sleep on satin sheets and- _How much sleeping will you be required to do, Sorelli? Surely sleeping is not all you will be doing with your nights. Certainly that will be a caveat of Philippe's and the start of your career as a nobleman's mistress. You were in the right of it, dear friend._

"Just tell me you will consider it. That is all I ask of you, Louise. I hadn't planned to leave until next month, so you have time to decide." He studied her face, looking for any sign of enthusiasm and was disheartened to see none. "I really do hope you decide in my favor."

She could only nod her head and paste a silly smile on her face, not willing to turn him down just yet. He had finally got some color in his cheeks, and was looking much healthier than he had in a while. But the knowledge that she would decline this trip was never in any doubt. She nearly hated Erik for filling her head and heart in the way he had. Her love was just like the man- insidious and tenacious.

The sound of the gun had not been all that loud; more of a popping noise, one following the next; shocking only because it was dropped so suddenly into the quiet of the room where they were having their pre-dinner drinks.

"What the devil?" Philippe stood up abruptly and looked toward the mahogany doors of the parlor.

"What is it?"

He dropped a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze before leaving the room. "It was a pistol being fired- twice. Don't worry, my dear. When I return, we'll have dinner."

So there she sat, holding a glass of sherry she didn't want, gazing around a room she would have liked to flee. She wasn't really in the mood for dinner tonight, and would rather have stayed home with Maria, curled up in a chair with a book and cup of tea. She would have doubted the veracity of the shots altogether, if Philippe had not been so adamant that it was indeed the sound of a gun being fired.

She sipped listlessly at her wine, feeling disengaged from everything and everyone, recalling the feeling of being watched as she paused outside of the carriage before entering the house. She had felt _his _presence. As if Erik had whispered in her ear, she had known on some level he was nearby. And the thread of unease which never really left her anymore, went up a notch. _A gun? Surely not. Who would fire a gun in a peaceful home such as this? At what? _She downed the sherry in one gulp and set the glass down, looking in dismay at the growing tremor in her hand. She tightened it into a fist and chastised herself for a fool. "Next I'll be jumping at my own shadow," she muttered grimly.

Louise thought again of Nadir Khan and his dire words earlier that evening. Was it just her imagination working on her, or did the Persian display more knowledge of the ghost than would warrant? Almost as though he knew Erik and was familiar with some of his more questionable activities. She wondered if it was possible. What had he called him? The Angel of Death. She knew that very soon she would be seeking out Monsieur Khan.

Louise looked up when Philippe entered the room. "Forgive me, my dear. It seems my addlepated brother was taking pot shots at a cat on his balcony."

"A c-cat?" she said faintly, hearing a roaring in her ears.

"That was all it could have been. Nothing else could have gone straight up the drainpipe the way it did."

She clamped her eyes shut and leaned her head back on the sofa. _No, it was simply a cat out there tonight. A poor stray, that's all. _She folded her hands in her lap, and gripped them tightly together as their trembling increased.

"Louise? Are you all right?"

She nodded and smiled sickly, once again feeling as though someone was jerking the rug from beneath her feet. It needn't mean anything. What reason would he have to follow her here? That irritating voice was whispering in her ear again and she despised the very sound of it. _Because you informed him you were going to your engagement with Philippe, that is why. Did you think he came to congratulate you? You were no sooner out of his arms that night, you were flinging__ it in his face. _

Philippe poured more sherry into her glass and handing it to her, walked over to the tall windows which opened onto the terraced garden in the back of the house. He was startled to see two yellow points of light on the other side of the pane. Leaning closer, he narrowed his eyes and stared at the scene lit by silvery moonlight, but on closer inspection, there was nothing- just his over-active imagination, stimulated no doubt by his very disturbed brother.

She felt cold, longing for her bed and warm comforter where she could curl up and sleep- _forget_. "The...the c-cat. Did it escape?"

Philippe shrugged as his eyes roamed the terrace. "More or less, although it must have been badly injured. It was bleeding quite a lot."

He turned at the sound of glass shattering on the floor and found Louise staring at him in horror.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N A little knowledge of Leroux's book will be helpful toward the end of this chapter, as events are interwoven with my story. If you become confused, raise your hand and I will try to clarify it for you :) I own nothing of PotO in any of its versions. **

* * *

When she looked back on that day, she knew beyond a doubt, it was her accident which catapulted them forward to that fateful night. It didn't have any basis in reality as she knew it, but it was there all the same. She would have found him eventually, and kept him from falling apart; she was sure of it.

It all began with the need to seek warmth from the icy rain which fell on that late November afternoon. Paris was in an uncommon cold snap for that time of the year.

"Come, Louise! I'm freezing and you're too slow!" Estelle said shortly as they sprinted the last few feet to the cafe and the promise of its warm and dry interior. What Sorelli didn't bank on was the patch of ice she soon found herself skating over, and started flailing her arms to keep from falling. She went down heavily, and pain lanced through her right knee, her eyes filling with tears.

Estelle was by her side in seconds, slipping a little herself on the ice as she knelt down beside her friend. "Mon Dieu! Are you all right?"

Both hands carefully exploring her painful knee, she glanced up at her friend and gritted her teeth, "Does it _look_ as though I'm all right, Taillier?" She bit out through clenched teeth. "I'm sitting on the blasted sidewalk with one knee the size of a toy balloon! What do _you _think?" She grimaced in pain and growled at her friend, "No, don't answer that! Just help me up."

Some passers-by had stopped to assist, and while one hailed a carriage, Louise was helped to her feet, favoring her bad leg, and bundled into the coach. Arriving at home, Maria sent for the doctor, and between her and Estelle, made Sorelli as comfortable as they could, her aunt applying ice to keep the swelling down.

Maria felt the knee with gentle fingers."There is nothing broken, but it is a sprain. To be safe, it is best that the doctor examine you. I know it hurts."

Louise pushed back carefully against the pillows, and winced as her aunt replaced the ice pack on her knee. "It's not the first sprain I've had, tante. It won't be the last either, but it comes at a bad time." Her anxiety for Erik was a dull ache in her chest, matching the one in her leg.

"Is there ever a _good _time, cara? Do not worry so. Rest, and in no time you will be dancing again."

"Dancing is the least of my worries," she muttered sotto voce, and sighed in vexation.

Dr. Alvery concurred with Maria's assessment, easing their worries by pronouncing it a mild sprain. "Mild it may be, mam'selle, but it still needs time to heal, n'est pas?" and prescribed tincture of Arnica, applications of heat and cold, but most importantly, complete bed rest for a week. "Under no circumstances are you to walk on it, young woman."

Louise laid there in complete disgust with herself for allowing this to happen. But as the house quieted, she returned to the worrying which had made the past few days so unbearable. She couldn't find Erik- had searched everywhere for him, even going so far as to try and get to the cellars through the mirror in Christine's room, but the door was locked tight against her. The young soprano seemed bent on avoiding her, for she would disappear as soon as rehearsal was through for the day. Christine's promise to get in touch with Louise, had not come to pass, and it merely added to her sense of approaching disaster. Going through the rue Scribe wasn't an option since she didn't have the key, and getting in any of the other doors was impossible; since the tragic incident with the chandelier, they were kept locked now, and access to the cellars was only given to those who had business there. She had only needed the time to look for him; her next step was to have been Madame Giry, who was once again back in her old post.

The blood on the balcony frightened her as nothing else could. She was absolutely certain that what Philippe thought was a cat was none other than her friend. What he was doing there on that night, she could only guess at, but if she was being honest with herself, it had more to do with a lie than anything else- the lie that she would be engaged to the comte. She felt Erik nearby before going into the de Chagny home, and no longer doubted her senses- he had been there, and she was to blame. To think he might possibly be alone and hurt, left her frightened and heartsore. She couldn't ask anyone to look for him. Could she? _Pardonne. Are you familiar with the opera ghost? He is the force which brought down the chandelier. Dangerous? Oh, yes. Yes, he is, but I think he's hurt. Could you check on him for me? Just be careful. You know what is said about wounded animals. Approach with caution._

She snorted a laugh, and put a hand over her mouth as frustrated tears slid down her cheeks. Impatiently, she knuckled them away.

"It will be all right, Louise. It is Faust tonight and there are those who can take your place," her aunt said bracingly, as she carried a supper tray into the room. "You must get better now and stop worrying."

"Yes, easy to say, harder to do," she said glumly, as Maria settled the tray on her lap.

"What is bothering you so? Tell me, child. I am listening."

Her fear and worry made her snap at her aunt. "What makes you think something is wrong? Just because my knee doesn't work anymore, and I am premier dancer at the Palais Garnier, why should that mean anything, tante?" She leaned tiredly into the pillows and closed her eyes.

"Now, now. I meant nothing by it, child," she murmured soothingly. "It is not only your accident that concerns me. That will heal in time, but you have been upset by something for days. Wouldn't it be better for you to share your burden?" and was startled to see her niece dissolve into tears.

Powerless and hating it, Louise stared up at her aunt with distraught eyes. "I think Erik is in trouble."

* * *

A dark figure worked its way along the sidewalk, sidling in and out of the deeper shadows. He was near the subscriber's entrance where carriages sat near the curb, one behind the other. He tugged his hat further down on his forehead, and hunched his thin shoulders, searching for the vicomte's carriage, and found it handily enough. He hissed in pain, gingerly slipping a hand inside his coat, and felt the wetness on his fingertips. It was bleeding again. Not much longer, and then he could rest. Faust was about to begin and he had more than enough time to position himself below the stage, even as slow as he was moving. He merely wanted to make certain of de Chagny's plans for tonight. A quick glance in the carriage boot and he found what he was looking for- luggage stowed away with all good intentions of leaving Paris as soon as the performance was over. An elopement, perhaps? His smile held nothing of warmth or good will. It was the smile of cold satisfaction. An eye for an eye- it is the law of retaliation. _Take what is mine, I will take what is yours. _To wit- what would de Chagny do when he found his beloved brother missing? Why, he would look everywhere for him, would he not? For the boy would no doubt search the cellars high and low to find Christine, and the _comte _would search high and low for the boy. Just as _he _wanted the elder de Chagny to do, for they were all welcome to his home. He had so few visitors these days.

* * *

It was the last act of Faust, just before Marguerite makes her plea to God and the angels. The company performed to another packed House, no doubt expecting something new and exciting as they recalled the last performance when the chandelier was brought down. The Comte de Chagny sat in his private box, wondering what mad imp led people to a scene of past disaster instead of away from it, which would seem the more logical thing to do. He turned and glanced at his brother who was the other occupant of the box, no doubt waiting for Daae to come onstage, for he leaned forward in his seat and strained his eyes for the first sight of her. He was still pondering the best way to separate Raoul from Christine Daae, and considered the extended naval expedition as the best option; he merely had to make sure Raoul was aboard before it sailed. He most certainly wasn't happy about the relationship, and still hoped that the younger man would sow his wild oats and move on.

Philippe took another deep breath, feeling as though he couldn't get enough air into his lungs, and rubbed fitfully at his left arm where a steady dull throb had lodged itself. He felt a weariness coming over him, and was surprised to find himself occasionally dozing off during Faust. Ridiculous to be acting like one of the older, gouty patrons who quite often found themselves dragged off to another performance by their wives, when all they wished for was their fireside and a glass of port. He put thumb and finger to his eyes and rubbed them, deciding to make it an early evening and go straight home. Louise was flat on her back from the wrenched knee, and perhaps after a good night's sleep he could keep her company the following afternoon. Her attitude had puzzled him since their dinner last week. She was as affectionate as always, but a distance in her manner since that night, left him wondering where they stood. She had pleaded a headache not long after the shooting incident, and left soon after. His proposal for her to join him in Monaco hadn't been answered as yet.

His every intention was to woo her gently as they sojourned on the French Riviera, spending their days exploring Monaco, and their evenings dining and dancing. After a few days, he hoped to be welcomed to her bed, plain and simple. He had not rushed her feelings, thinking he had all the time in the world. He didn't.

"The lovely Estelle is taking Louise's place in the dance this evening. Did you know that?" Raoul glanced over at his brother when he didn't answer, and saw him with head on chest, his eyes closed. He nudged him with an elbow. "Too many late nights for you, brother," to which Philippe raised his head.

"I don't know about late nights, but far too many busy days. When Louise gets back on her feet, I am hoping the two of us will be taking a little trip. I think she would adore Monaco."

"Monaco?" he grinned. "Not exactly quiet and sedate, old man, especially with a lively dancer in tow."

Philippe eyed his brother with a jaundiced eye. "I am hardly ready for the rocking chair just yet. I think I can still manage to keep up with Sorelli. One needn't spend one's time drinking too much brandy and gambling thousand's away in Monte Carlo. Afternoons spent on the water sailing, and candlelight dinners in our room would be more the thing."

"Much better," he replied grinning.

"Oh, you approve now, do you?"

"Yes." Raoul looked at his brother, feeling a surge of love for the man who at times was more father to him than anything else, and for a tiny moment regretted his decision to leave here with Christine tonight, wishing there was a better way. Philippe would be angry and hurt, convinced that he was right about the soprano all along. But Raoul also knew his brother well enough to realize he would eventually forgive him. He was counting on it. All the same, he would pay dearly for the privilege.

Philippe yawned. "I MIGHT be on an equal footing with Louise after her knee mends. She'll naturally have to take it a little easier for a while, and _this _old man will then be able to keep up with her quite well."

Raoul laughed, only to still when Christine appeared and began her plea to Heaven. He sobered as he listened to her sing with all her heart and soul. When she began her invocation to the angels, she made him feel as though his soul could take wing and join hers as it rose above the stage.

He stood up and leaned on the velvet railing, his eyes never leaving her solitary figure with arms upraised in entreaty. She was magnificent with golden hair spilling over her shoulders as she uttered the divine cry- "My soul longs with thee to rest!"

The stage was suddenly plunged into darkness. A low murmur, growing in intensity was heard from the auditorium, as Raoul cried out in alarm and turned to Philippe. "What..."

"It's happening again, I think."

"Not so quick to deny it this time, are you, Phil? I wish that idiot Mifroid was here!"

"He is...just down there, with his wife and daughter," and pointed to the center of the darkened auditorium, where people were already milling about, and a few shrill screams could be heard.

The lights came on just as suddenly as they had gone out, and the stage was lit again, but Christine was gone. Raoul glanced at his brother one last time, and flung over his shoulder as he hurriedly left the box, "It's him. I know it! I told you there is a creature named Erik living in the cellars! Maybe now you'll believe it! I'm going down there and I _will _find her!" leaving a stunned Philippe to wonder what madness had visited the Garnier.

He jumped to his feet, intending to follow his brother, and immediately reeled back, collapsing into the seat behind him when a wave of dizziness nearly overwhelmed him. "What the hell-" He leaned forward when a sharp pain ripped through his chest and he rubbed at it ineffectually, reaching into his coat pocket for the tablets his doctor had prescribed for him, and washed two down with the remnants of his champagne. There was nothing for it but to wait for the pain to subside. He had a moment of pure fright, wondering for the hundredth time if his body was going to give out on him now- if this would be the moment it failed him.

His doctor had been concerned with the state of his heart for the past three months, trying to convince him to slow down and take life easier. No one but his solicitor had been informed of his ill-health; his estate was in order in case he- He swallowed hard, his hands tightly gripping the armrests- even his brother and sisters were unaware of his failing heart. His one hope was that his condition would stabilize and allow him more time. He had not told Sorelli either; she merely thought he was working too hard. He squeezed his eyes shut. He did indeed love her, and already he felt the sorrow of time running out for them. Whether she loved him, was never easily ascertained, for there was always something cool and untouchable about her; he felt passion was there, just below the surface- could see it in her eyes, but he could never touch it or get her to let go. The man that could tap into it would be the luckiest son of a bitch alive- he knew he wasn't that man, for without a doubt his time was limited. He could feel it in the heaviness of his chest, the growing stubbornness of his limbs to do his bidding. He sighed raggedly as the pain backed off a bit. After a few tense minutes, he was able to leave the box.

* * *

Pandemonium reigned supreme backstage, and rumors flew as to the whereabouts of Christine Daae. The commissary had been sent for, and Inspector Mifroid was on his way backstage. Some blamed the ghost for the singer's abduction, but a good many considered the Vicomte de Chagny to be the culprit, having run away with the young woman. Still others reasoned that the comte had a hand in her disappearance, for many of the beau monde were aware of the strained relations between the brothers over the singer. What no one could deduce, was how it had been managed, removing her from the middle of her aria in front of a loaded House.

Estelle could have told any interested party that Raoul had met up with the Persian, that very same gentleman who was content to loiter around the opera house on a daily basis. She had watched Nadir Khan force the lock on the door beneath the stage, and disappear through it- the door which led to the gloomy underworld of the opera house. The nether regions inhabited by the ghost.

Philippe approached the mirror in Christine's dressing room; the mirror Raoul insisted led to the Phantom's hideout. If indeed there was a way through it, there would be a hidden catch to open it. There were several hidden cubbyholes in Chagny, his ancestral seat; put there when the ancien regime was bowing right and left to Madame Guillotine during the reign of terror, and a tiny secreted latch could open one. In some cases, it had allowed an ancestor to retain ownership of his head. Raoul had been made aware of the Chagny bolt holes as well, but apparently never considered the Garnier mirror to be similar in nature. It was very cleverly done, but it was only a matter of time before he figured out this particular mechanism. He removed his tailcoat and set to work, wiping the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand.

Thirty minutes later, the Comte de Chagny vanished into the cellars, and would not leave them alive.

* * *

Nadir Khan came reluctantly back to consciousness as he was bumped and banged across the floor by the very man who had nearly killed him mere hours ago. His feet were of little use, and that was why he was being ignominiously dragged along; he didn't have to pretend that he was still senseless, for he felt a weak lassitude stealing over him again. Going from blistering heat to nearly drowning, will do that to a man. Erik kept an arm slung around him as they made their way past the monstrous opera house furnaces which were lit with a hellish glow. The Persian wondered if tonight's exertions had tired even the Trap Door Lover, for he was barely making any headway at times, and if his ears didn't deceive him, gasping for breath.

Kahn, who had met up with the little vicomte, had known the moment the lights went out, who was responsible for the soprano's disappearance from the stage. The determination of de Chagny to find her, had him feeling a certain obligation to accompany him. Cautiously, they had made their tense journey to the third cellar and the farmhouse scene for the Roi de Lahore where the Persian had found another way into Erik's little house.

Nadir, carefully trailing Erik one afternoon only the week before, had found this other way into the little house. The masked man had squatted down that day, and touched something on the floor; very soon, he was gone from sight, and Nadir had crept forward when the way was clear, always aware of the danger from discovery. After some careful searching, he had found a small nail head, that when depressed, caused a square stone to pivot aside, revealing a gaping black hole, and that is where he brought the vicomte earlier tonight. They managed to avoid the commissary of police, a number of door-shutters, and numerous firemen on their way to the ghost's lair. He had exhorted de Chagny to keep his hand at the level of his eyes in case his one-time comrade decided to use the Punjab lasso with which he excelled. They found the pivoting stone, cleverly concealed in the floor, and knowing it led to the monster's home, they had jumped into the place where they nearly died- Erik's torture chamber.

When he discovered where they had landed themselves, he was horrified, and explained to the vicomte that the room was an exact copy of the chamber the masked man had built in Persia. As the henchman of the sultana, he had devised ingenious ways to murder for her twisted enjoyment. It was a six-cornered room of mirrors from top to bottom, with an iron tree painted to resemble any other tree in a forest, only this one was meant for hanging, for it possessed a noose on one of its iron limbs. The mirrors allowed the single tree to become a virtual forest, multiplying them into an unending tropical woodland, complete with wild animal sounds and searing heat which would drive a man mad, and lead him to the hanging tree, thus ending his torment.

Which is what happened to them, as they were soon bathed in the bright burning radiance of an equatorial sun, their presence triggering the heated walls and floor, and they slowly began to roast. He was jostled out of his black thoughts when the monster stumbled and went to one knee gasping and wheezing, and Khan went sprawling to the floor.

"I told you, Louise... I would never force you-" He began to cough and gave a grunt of pain. "See? Do you see? My word to you, darling. I let you go, didn't I? _Didn't_ I?" He reached for the daroga again, and slung a shaking arm around him, forcing his weary feet into moving once more.

Louise? Khan pondered who the man was talking about. He only knew of one named so. Sorelli. But what did she have to do with the opera ghost? He vaguely recalled an earlier conversation with Christine through the wall, as he and the vicomte lay exhausted in their own sweat inside the torture chamber. She was alone at the time, and had told them Erik was calling her by another name, and in his misery and thirst, the Persian never considered to ask who.

Nadir had sweltered in the chamber along with the vicomte, while they spoke frantically with Christine. She was a prisoner of Erik's, and he was forcing her to choose between marriage to him or death by explosion. A very large explosion, even by Erik's standards, from barrels of gunpowder in the lowest cellar. The girl chose marriage to the monster to save themselves and a goodly number of unsuspecting Parisians. He felt a cramp go through his upper thigh as he was dragged along by an increasingly weakened Erik. He thought he could feel a freshening breeze coming from somewhere, and for the first time since their ordeal began, felt hope burgeoning in his chest that he would live to see another sunrise.

He had feared for their lives as Erik made Christine choose between him and death. Were not the two interchangeable? The masked man had two beautifully carved figurines- one a grasshopper, the other a scorpion. The gunpowder was set to go off if she chose the grasshopper; choosing the scorpion would mean the gunpowder would be flooded and rendered useless. It also meant Christine's life was given into the Phantom's keeping forever. But choosing the scorpion brought another near-fatal event for the two men in the torture chamber- they were nearly drowned by the rushing of the icy lake water as it inundated the powder, and swept into the chamber in which they were trapped. For Nadir, he felt that his lives had been brutally used up that night- from near-death by scorching heat, to near-drowning by flood. He wasn't sure if he could ever recover from this- for that matter, he was quite certain Erik wouldn't either.

With Christine's agreement to marriage with a madman, Erik had been able to find a small bit of sanity still present within himself, and saved the vicomte and Khan from certain death. Hopefully he was doing what he promised- returning the Persian to the world above. He could only hope that Christine Daae and the vicomte would fare the same, and like him, live to see another sunrise. After being rescued from the torture chamber, he had been slung over the masked man's shoulder, and they had begun their torturous journey to the surface.

Erik once again halted, and dumped Nadir unceremoniously on the ground. The masked man was now slumped over, wheezing as he fought for breath. He raised his head with effort, and regarded the daroga, noting the jade eyes surveying him blearily.

"You are still alive, eh, daroga? You have nearly killed me. Have you ever said no to another spoonful of _anything?_"

The Persian looked Erik up and down his spindly length and replied hoarsely, "Have you ever said _yes_?"

"We are at an impasse then, but perhaps _you _can carry me now. I am all done in, dear daroga. All done in, but she asked that I spare your lives, and I always keep my promises to her. She sees some worth in your miserable carcass," and he smiled with genuine pleasure, "the same as she found in that mangy cat of hers, I suppose."

"What is wrong with you, Erik, besides your lack of sanity?" He was more than familiar with the sometimes disjointed ramblings of the masked man, but his own exhaustion was not helping matters in the least.

"Wrong? Why, everything is wrong for nothing has ever been right." He climbed unsteadily to his feet, wincing in pain. "No matter. Not much further for me to go now. It is nearly over, and I shall be glad to see it all end. Ah, a carriage. It can convey your worthless self home," and he helped Nadir to his feet, where they leaned on each other for support, then lurched their way to the hired carriage, much like drunken comrades will do after a night of debauchery. Erik shoved the Persian none too gently into the coach and gave the direction to the driver. At first they remained silent on the drive to the rue de Rivoli, neither one having the energy or inclination to speak, but as Nadir lay slumped tiredly in the corner, stinking of the filthy lake water, Erik began to mumble. And he found himself listening.

"She's gone from me. She hates me now, but I-I didn't harm him. He was floating in the lake; I didn't put him there, and the Siren never touched him."

"Harmed who?"

"The comte," and he began coughing weakly, grabbing his side.

Khan felt the icy trickle running down his back, certain that being in Erik's presence would only help it grow. "Philippe de Chagny is dead?"

The masked man leaned over, long arms wrapped around his narrow waist and rocked back and forth. "I found him that way. I did not kill him," he whispered, cocking his head in thought, "at least I don't _think_ I did. He was looking for the boy, you understand," he said wearily.

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Who?

"Merciful Allah, man! Christine Daae and the Vicomte de Chagny!"

He shrugged and rubbed a hand over the eye holes of his mask. "I'm sure _I _don't know. They will be married soon, I dare say. All that work and _love _I put into her magnificent instrument, all for naught. That's all I wanted for her. To take her place on the greatest stage in the world. The greatest _diva _in the world. But do you think _she_ understood her Erik? No, she did not." He turned and looked at Nadir, eyes burning bright with some unknowable scene from his past.

"We overcame the Commune together, her and I_." _He leaned back in exhaustion and squinted at Nadir. "We once slept in a barn loft, did I tell you that? She trusted me then and I loved her for it." He shook his head and threw an arm over his masked face. "Oh, God, I love her!" his voice breaking in despair. He had begun shaking, and in a bid for control, clenched his hands tightly on the edge of the seat. He regarded the Persian with dead eyes. "I will send you my most treasured belongings. They were once hers. It will signify the end is near for me."

Helplessly, he repeated his question, "What is wrong with you, Erik?"

"Why...I am dying," and began to laugh, the sound shrill and not altogether sane. "Only dying, dear daroga."

The Persian, feeling decidedly lightheaded, slumped down on the seat and said nothing more. Once at the flat, the opera ghost rallied his remaining strength and got Nadir to the door, patiently waiting until Darius answered it. He handed the semi-conscious man over to his servant, who looked in shock at his master.

Erik dredged up a smirk from somewhere. "I found him swimming in the lake, Darius. Kindly keep him in for a few days- away from water."

The servant closed his mouth with a snap, catching a quick glimpse of the man once greatly feared in his country, trying to get back into the carriage, but having trouble lifting one foot from the ground.

* * *

**Erik and Nadir. Together again. Like ham and eggs. Or french fries and ketchup. Soup and salad. I must be hungry, lol. Next up- Louise pulls herself together. Erik falls apart. _Ouch._**


	30. Chapter 30

She could do little more than sit stiffly on the sofa and wring her hands while she waited for him to return. The time for action was long past. Her one concern now, was to discover what the monster had done with Raoul. She rubbed wearily at her face, careful not to touch the cut she gave herself, banging her head against the wall in an attempt to get free; the injury that Erik had cried over as he cleaned and bandaged it so tenderly. He had tied her to the chair earlier in the evening, completely unhinged as he muttered to himself and called her by another woman's name. Louise. He had thought her to be someone else as he implored her to love him.

That Erik was in love with the prima ballerina was now indisputable. But Sorelli? She had never let on she knew Erik. No, not at all, and the only conclusion Christine could arrive at, was his unrequited love for the dancer. That, or Louise had been duping her all along, having been aware of Erik and lying about it. The idea of the other woman's treachery, rankled, for she had considered the ballerina a friend. Raoul had been wise not to trust her, adjuring Christine to keep her distance from the other woman in case she decided to take the tale of the couple's flight from Paris to the comte. Feeling guilty for it, she nonetheless had eluded Louise throughout that tense week, making certain she was gone after rehearsals before Sorelli could approach her and begin asking questions. Curiously, her self-imposed distance only made her feel more alone than ever, for her teacher had withdrawn into a shell of his own, and outside of her lessons, had given her a wide berth. _Your teacher, Christine? Your deranged jailer. Your demented kidnapper._

When he first brought her here, he was all business- the teacher she had come to expect as he molded her voice and forced her to strive for perfection. They had settled into a routine, and she had, by slow degrees, become enthused by her progress and his obvious skill with her voice. But she had missed her lover, for Erik was a harsh taskmaster and insisted on her obedience to put Raoul aside for the time being. She had started to rebel three days after the gala. Little things at first. Refusing to eat but once a day, and at that, very little; ignoring him in between their lessons, and declining to speak more than what was required. It gave her childish satisfaction, but she had quickly found the isolation to be unnerving. Soon, she was inventing reasons to talk with him, just to ease her loneliness.

He was an anomaly and Christine was afraid of him- afraid _and _fascinated. His voice was a piece of pure heaven, but her complicated emotions listening to those dulcet tones, were far from angelic and anything but innocent. His fluid movements in all that he did, reluctantly drew her eyes to him, whether it was his long-legged stride across the room, or the practiced glide of his hands on piano keys while playing accompaniment. Often, he would take issue with her inattentiveness, completely unaware of the reason. Would that he had a face to match his other gifts; he would be a true force to be reckoned with- nothing could have held him back then. But she had seen what was behind that black silk-

One day, not long into the second week, she hesitantly approached his room, hearing the beautifully lucid chords of Berlioz's Te Deum. His door was open as it usually was when he played, as though inviting his audience of one to come closer, and she had paused on the threshold to listen. Her eyes had fallen on the draped coffin in the middle of the room, and the incongruity of it. Coupled with his choice of music, it left her feeling out of place, as though reality had fled, only to become lost in someone else's delusion. Like Louise before her, she was appalled at the coffin's presence in his home, and it left her shaken; this symbol of the graveyard in the home of the living. But Erik's skill and reverence for the notes pouring forth from a mind and body completely in tune with one another, soon lulled her back into the hymn, watching those hands doing his will with such great fluency. For her remarkable teacher, this whiff of death in the middle of his bedchamber, was not so very unusual after all.

But there was something oddly skewed in Erik's personality; that of a man always expecting the worst from people, and curiously satisfied when his assumptions were proven correct. He found her to be lazy when it came to seeking the heights her voice could reach, and he had nearly always smirked when he pointed it out to her. He was caustic and demanding of her, this man who had deceived her in such a reprehensible fashion, but if there was any saving grace in him, this then, was it. His music.

She had observed him silently as he threw his entire body into the work, and her heart had started to pound as she witnessed a true master of his craft; a virtuoso who remained undiscovered and buried in the bowels of the earth. She would feel a moment's sadness for her captor, that here indeed _was_ the angel she had envisioned. He did exist then. He truly existed when Erik played.

"You are marvelous to watch."

No sooner had the impulsive words slipped from her mouth, Christine regretted them. She could feel the heat crawling up her neck and settling across her cheekbones as she stood awkwardly in the doorway.

He had looked up in surprise, not used to her seeking him out, but his uncanny hearing had picked up the softly spoken words as though she stood beside him. The reason was simple, although she had never really pondered what _her_ voice meant to him. She was to be the new shining star of the Garnier- his ingenue and gift to the world of song. To him, her voice was perfection- or would be when he was finished with her. It was like no other, in every bit of nuance, every bit of variation, whether it be the sweet timbre of a soubrette, or the warmer tones of the lyric. He heard her clear, precise instrument, even buried as it was, beneath the rolling chords of the Cavaille-Coll. If the Siren had truly existed, it would sound like Christine Daae.

He took his hands from the manuals, and the majestic sound ended, but for the echos still quivering in the stale air. He had nodded in acknowledgement, then spread his spider's fingers over the keys once more. "Let us sing something from the opera, Christine," he had said with something approaching contempt. They sang the love duet from Otello and she was transported by the power and allure of his voice- at times thunderous proclamations of driving authority, and in the very next measure, the soft and enticing whisper of a lover.

He confused her, or was it _her_ reaction to Erik that was confusing? Feeling repelled for much of the time, she was also ashamed to admit to herself, a disturbing attraction to him. There was in the man, a shyness hidden behind his assertive and imposing demeanor. He sometimes approached her with diffidence, his customary arrogance nowhere in sight, almost as though a harsh word from her would halt him in his tracks. He had shown her around his little house with pride, and she supposed it was deserved; how many men could claim a home beneath an opera house? Her teacher had much in common with the Svartalfar people her father used to speak of on cold winter nights. She would listen closely, sitting before a crackling fire, the bitter winds of January skirling around the eaves of their snug little house in Uppsala, as her papa spoke of magical creatures with dark hair and gray skin, beings who were never very fond of the sun, but preferred to live out their lives far below the ground.

Erik could be kind as well, in an off-hand manner. Once, he had permitted her a short visit with Mamma Valerius, escorting her there late one evening, only to find the old lady ill; he had paid from his own pocket for a doctor to attend to her, as well as providing a woman to come in and care for her. When she tried to thank him, he simply waved it away as having no consequence. "For you would only worry about her, and refuse to concentrate on your lessons," he had said stiffly. There had been a tentative move in the early days toward a little more harmony in their association; a relationship of sorts, which was begun through a wall when she considered him to be an angel. Even in the first days of her captivity, there had been a slow drift to rapport through a shared love of music. They had conversations about her father and their travels together; she even found herself confiding in Erik about her still very palpable grief at her papa's death. He had listened with that singular regard that made her feel that she was important to the world, and not simply a very minuscule part of it; for all that he was her captor, he had treated Christine well, and had cared for her as no one had since her father died.

That came to a halt on the day she unmasked him, their relationship since then, plodding forward under the guise of teacher-student. Erik was coolly business-like once again, and much less approachable, nearly blunt with her. But she began to notice a restlessness in him; a melancholia that had him in its grip, and outside of their lessons, he moved about like a wraith, having lost that which anchored him and gave him purpose- namely, Christine's place in the Garnier as diva. Something or someone... _Louise?..._ had caused a deep rift in whatever passed for tranquility in the man. If his sanity seemed to be sliding away more and more, it hadn't been as noticeable- until the night of the masquerade when it became much more obvious. Between her bouts of fear and admiration for his many talents, she would at times feel a vast pity for his lot in life. Unloved and alone, he seemed destined to ride out his existence without anyone to care whether he lived or died. That he could be a frightening individual, she had never doubted once, and felt as though she was at the end of her willingness to deal with the complications of his fractured rationality.

The fact that he had found out somehow of their plans to leave Paris was really unsurprising. To Christine, he was always one step ahead of everyone else, making all of them seem clumsy and ignorant by comparison. He had removed her with ease from the stage in front of hundreds of people, by means of a trapdoor which had opened beneath her feet. Terrified, she fell into empty black space, and was saved by wiry arms which wrapped around her in a tight hold. He had forced her to choose, _or was it Louise he meant to force into a choice?_ She had agreed to marriage with him, but only if he released the two men from the little room of terrors. He had complied. She now awaited her bridegroom.

The door behind her opened and she turned quickly, squaring her shoulders and forcing her fragile mind back from the yawning chasm where it was trying so desperately to go. She gave a cry and jumped up from the sofa and flew to the man standing there, who was barely upright, his once impeccable attire, filthy and torn, his face unshaven and haggard. The eyes he turned on her were bloodshot and wearing a look she recognized from seeing it in Erik's eyes. Raoul de Chagny was a haunted man. But he was alive and whole. That's all that mattered to her.

She threw her arms around him and clutched him tightly, all but ignoring the grim scarecrow standing beside him. The vicomte raised arms which felt impossibly heavy, and hugged her back with as much strength as he could muster, as Erik propped himself up against the wall and watched them with dull eyes.

"He said we can go, Christine. Now. We can leave n-now." He turned to the creature who had tried so hard to end his life, and felt the hatred crouching there in the back of his mind, but for the present, could only summon up a weary relief that they could both leave here relatively intact. He flicked his eyes up to the silent sentinel standing beside him, the man's shoulders bowed as though under too heavy a burden. "Isn't that so, monsieur?"

Those impenetrable eyes could only stare numbly back at the vicomte, no longer caring where the young couple went, for his reason had returned to him on the ride back to the theatre, and he now knew with an awful certainty the mistake he had made in his madness. He had traded a chance at love for an ethereal dream. He cringed at the waywardness of his mind, and the games it had so gleefully played. He whimpered in terror, and they nervously stepped away from him.

Erik waved an arm that felt curiously detached from the rest of him, and said hoarsely, "Go on then. What are you waiting for?" He stood swaying on his feet, feeling the exhaustion pulling at his equilibrium; he couldn't remember the last time he slept. He watched with disinterest as de Chagny took Christine by the arm and tugged her toward the open door.

A small bit of pity made its way into her suddenly hopeful mood, and she paused, noticing his fight to remain upright. She had known there was something wrong with him for a few days now; he walked without his usual grace, and she had caught him wincing in pain. He was ill and looked it, now more than ever, with his damp clothes and limp black hair falling over his brow. "Are you going to be all right, Erik?"

"No," he replied hoarsely in a voice which sounded loaded with grit, and stumbled his way toward his bedchamber. "You won't mind if I ask you to see yourselves out?" Not waiting for an answer, he left them standing near the door.

And yet Christine hesitated; although greatly relieved to be going, she felt again that kernel of pity- fate would never be kind to him. He was far too damaged inside and out. She shuddered, only wanting to leave and put all thoughts of him and this cheerless place behind her forever.

"We must go now before he changes his mind, cherie," Raoul whispered urgently, and her indecisiveness gone, allowed him to pull her through the door to freedom.

* * *

Estelle was the one to break the news of the disaster which had befallen the latest performance of Faust yet again, followed by the shocking news of Philippe's death. She had hurried to the apartment in the rue Chaveau, wanting to arrive there before the morning newspaper did, and she was successful by all of five minutes.

"It was the last act when the lights went out, and when they came back on, Christine was gone. We all waited in fear, but nothing else happened except for Daae's disappearance from the stage." She gazed solemnly at Louise who had the look of someone swallowing something bitter. "I saw the vicomte and that Persian fellow going through the door beneath the stage. I didn't see them coming back out."

Sorelli leaned against the pillows, her face white and appalled. "And Philippe?" she asked, her voice faint. It was her fault that she hadn't alerted the commissary to Erik's presence in the cellars from the very start.

"They found him lying beside the water- by that lake supposedly down there. He must have drowned, but Inspector Mifroid thinks someone dragged him out of the water in a misplaced sense of that, or he was able to pull himself out and then collapsed." She regarded Louise with sympathy, knowing how much this had to hurt. "There wasn't a mark on him," she said quietly.

Maria sat down on the edge of the bed and put an arm around her niece, and Louise leaned over, seeking the comfort and security of her aunt, burying her face in Maria's shoulder. "It's my fault, tante. All mine-"

"No, cara. What are you saying? You weren't even there, child, so hush such talk."

Sorelli put a shaking hand over her face and took a deep breath. The grief was raw and ready to consume, but the tears wouldn't come. "I didn't have to be there. But I may as well have been."

Estelle felt uncomfortable knowing anything she said now would only make it worse. The Garnier had been in an uproar since last night, and police had crawled throughout the entire building. She decided not to tell Sorelli about the two gendarmes injured in the hunt for Christine and her kidnapper. There had been some sort of accident involving falling stone, with one man receiving a concussion, and another tumbling off of a set of wooden stairs when they suddenly collapsed on him. Of course, Estelle wasn't certain how badly injured they'd been- after the rumors circulated throughout the corps de ballet, it could have been a matter of one of the men tripping over his own feet. Gossip was rife in a theatre. She would get the truth from Gilberte.

She stood up and awkwardly patted her friend's shoulder. "I have to be going. I just wanted you to know before anyone else comes to visit with questions you might not want to answer. There is a good chance the commissaire de police will be here sometime today or tomorrow to speak with you." She hesitated once again, not wishing to make it worse for Sorelli, but she left her with a warning. "There is talk concerning Philippe and his brother, Louise. The commissary think they were fighting over Daae and it may have become physical- even deadly."

She raised her head in disbelief. "_What_? They think- No! No, that isn't right at all! Where did they ever get such an idea? Out of a cocked hat?" she cried, incredulous at their stupidity. "Philippe loved Raoul and had no intention of fighting over Christine. Concern...yes, but Raoul adored his older brother. They would eventually have worked it out. Phil, if anything is...H-He's dead. My God! My God! I can't believe it. I just can't. They have no idea-" She clamped her lips shut; even after this mind-numbing shock, reluctant to give Erik away. She must be as mad as he.

"No idea of what?" Estelle said, puzzled.

"N-Nothing," but Maria observed her niece thoughtfully, and once Estelle had gone, brought her a cup of tea and sat beside the bed while she drank it.

"Such a terrible thing to happen to such a fine man as the count. A tragedy. Louise, is there something else going on here that you would like to tell me? I remember someone sent us on a ride across Paris that night." She watched her niece for some sign that she was listening, and was rewarded when the young woman raised her eyes- eyes that remained free of tears as yet. "I can't help but wonder if Erik had anything to do with this; you did say he was in trouble. Perhaps you should talk with this inspector."

"No! I-I don't know. I think h-he may very well be involved, but I don't know to what extent."

"To the extent that he would commit murder?"

Sorelli stroked the black fur of the sleeping tomcat curled on her bed, looking for any tiny bit of comfort she could find. Her mind was showing her horrifying pictures before skittering away like a frightened rabbit; images that would persist every time she closed her eyes and watched helplessly as long white hands reached up and wrenched Philippe out of the little boat; effortlessly dragging him beneath the inky waters of the lake.

"You have said precious little about him in the past few weeks." Maria's next words were hesitant, "Is he...dangerous? The truth now."

She shook her head, her vision blurring. "Not to me. He wouldn't hurt me," she whispered.

She stared blindly at her lap, cursing her knee and Erik for at last parting ways with his sanity. He had finally managed to do it. He took Christine and fled with her to his home, _after _he relinquished his tight grip on her the first time he took her. It was clear to Louise that he had run out of misdeeds; he was now repeating them.

"You must face the possibility that Erik is lost to you, cara." She said it as gently as she could, knowing her niece's great affection for him.

She looked up at Maria. "I pray to God you're wrong, aunt, for I'm not entirely blameless."

"Why do you say this, Louise? What could you have possibly done?"

Her face was stricken as she stared at her aunt in the cold light of that dismal fall day. "I-I lied to him. I was angry and I lied to hurt him." She stared in anguish at her aunt, trying to make her understand, but she was simply making a mess of it. "I wasn't there for him, tante. He needed me to be there and I wasn't."

Her aunt opened her mouth to reply, and Louise shook her head. "I know absolutely nothing, and I won't say another word against him until I'm certain of his involvement in Phil's d-death." Even then, she couldn't imagine coming forward with the means to track him down to the house hidden in the fifth cellar. The horrible burden of loving the man who could have orchestrated all of this was nearly too much to bear. But her worry for him continued on unabated, and she chafed at her helplessness.

The Persian going to the commissary with a wild tale of captivity and madness, had kept insisting that Christine Daae and Raoul de Chagny were alive, but their whereabouts had yet to be discovered. It wasn't very much, but she would pin her hopes on that.

The rest of the afternoon saw a motley group of personages presenting themselves at her door, including Inspector Mifroid who questioned her extensively about the brothers and their tense relationship over the singer. The inspector was a victim of his own limited and narrow thinking, refusing to believe in a deformed recluse living beneath the opera house. A mad genius? Better to put together a crime of fratricide over a singer, than any ghostly killer. And the Persian fellow? Why, who would believe someone who lived in a brutal godless country such as that? The man was delusional, to say the least, and so the good inspector traveled further and further from the truth until he left it far behind, allowing a legend to grow and flourish in its place.

When Maria brought the inspector to her room, Louise studied the small, neatly groomed man. She had been interviewed by him in the theatre after the chandelier incident, but not impressed at all by his sense of logic or simple deductions. He wasn't what she expected in a man of the law; seeming more suited as a haberdasher or store clerk. He asked no astute questions, nor did he appear very interested in finding a solution to any crime committed in the Garnier. Once again, she wondered if Erik realized what a treasure he had in Mifroid; the man was clearly not impressed by any of the accounts presented by witnesses he had spoken with, and seemed to be leading the commissary in a completely different direction. After speaking with him in more detail, she knew what he _wanted _to believe.

Lancelot Mifroid bowed slightly to the woman lying on the bed, and Sorelli waved him to a chair. "We meet again, mademoiselle. Forgive the intrusion at this inopportune time. I hope your injury is not serious?"

"Only a wrenched knee. Nothing more than that, although it will keep me off my feet for a few days." She looked up at Maria who hovered near the door, and cut her eyes to the other chair. With an apologetic glance at the inspector, she sat down on the opposite side of the bed, and Louise turned back to Mifroid. "How can I help you, inspector?" knowing very well why he was there.

"Only a few questions, and then I promise to leave you in peace. You are aware of le Comte de Chagny's unfortunate demise, are you not? You were acquaintances, I believe?"

"Yes."

"Will you please tell me when you saw him last?"

"Of course. It was early yesterday evening when he came round to visit before...before he left for the opera." She closed her eyes momentarily at the vision of Philippe sitting just where the inspector was sitting now. The very last time she would see him.

Mifroid leaned forward. "I know this is difficult for you, Mademoiselle Sorelli. I will be as brief as possible."

He paused and tugged on his neatly trimmed beard as he formulated his next question. Everything about the man was precise; from his combed and pomaded hair, parted exactly in the center of his neat round head, to the tips of his well shined shoes, made of the finest Morocco leather. She could almost imagine his dismay at any dirt bold enough to land on coat or trousers- he struck her as a fussy little man, completely bored with police work, and wondered again how he became a commissaire de police.

"Will you relate to me the relationship between le comte and his brother?"

Ah. So this was his game. Estelle was right. Cast blame on someone who is no longer able to defend himself. She stared back at Mifroid with a hard light in her eyes. "Certainly I will explain it to you. They weren't simply brothers, inspector; they were as like father and son. Philippe loved Raoul very much, and the feeling was amply returned."

"Perhaps this was so...until Christine Daae arrived at the opera house, no? Didn't their argument over the young woman begin then?"

"They weren't _arguing_ over Christine," she patiently explained. _Ah well...another tiny lie._ _What is one more? _"The comte was concerned that his brother was too young to consider marriage with anyone, especially in light of his imminent departure for the North Pole." Louise waved a hand to dismiss his line of questioning. "You are going on rumors and innuendo, inspector, and you will not find anything in that direction."

"Oh? In which direction should I go then, mademoiselle?"

And here she was caught. Confess to knowing an opera ghost, or add her voice to those smearing Philippe's good name? She chose the former, for in a bizarre way, she intended to tell the truth. "I wasn't there when Christine left the stage. I don't know where she went or with whom, but Philippe had nothing to do with it. You'll have to look elsewhere for your culprit. Perhaps Mademoiselle Daae took it upon herself to leave the stage and she eloped with the vicomte. Or P-Philippe, listening to the gossip, went looking for his brother and became lost. I do not know what happened."

"Do you know a man called Nadir Khan?" he asked, changing tactics.

"No," she lied.

"He tells an interesting story of a masked man hiding in the cellars who comes out and causes mayhem in the Palais Garnier, only to vanish into the cellars again. There is a house down there, he says," and here Mifroid's mustache twitched in amusement. "We searched those cellars extensively, mademoiselle. Gloomy and vast, but no house, unless this _fantome_ is also a magician and can make it disappear. This Persian _gentleman_ insists that he and the vicomte were held by the opera ghost in a torture room, while the young woman was held in another being wooed by this fellow. I was also told that he threatened to blow up the opera house with a large store of gunpowder left over from the fight for equality. Any of it true?"

Something Mifroid had just said was now niggling at the edge of thought, but try though she might, she couldn't quite grasp hold of it. Sorelli had to admit that the story Nadir Khan had revealed to the inspector was quite a tale, smacking of make believe and fabrications. But she knew differently. As fantastic as it was, it was real. _Well, Louise? Going to do the correct thing here and add your voice to the lunacy? _She looked thoughtfully at the commissaire and decided to not only get her feet wet, she was going to plunge in up to her neck. She took a deep breath and jumped.

"It is all true, monsieur. Every bit of it. I myself was held by the ghost for weeks at a time. This started many years ago, of course; when I was just a child. He kept me a virtual prisoner in his house, but we soon became the best of friends! His home wasn't nearly as nice then, you understand, but you should see it now! It is quite lovely and has all of the comforts of any of the better homes in Paris. And flowers everywhere! Baskets and baskets of them! I visited with him not so very long ago, and we had tea and little cakes! Although I do not remember a torture room," she muttered, her brow furrowing, which was nothing but the truth.

She began crooning a little tune, keeping time with one finger. Mifroid watching this, cleared his throat a trifle impatiently. "Mademoiselle, if you please. You were saying-?"

Sorelli eyed the inspector with disfavor. "Not a lover of music, are you, monsieur?"

He shot her a look of irritation. "Music? But of course. Please, mam'selle... _continue_."

And she began humming again, only to be interrupted by an increasingly annoyed Mifroid. "I _meant _your knowledge of this person who claims to be a ghost."

"Very well," she sighed. "Let's start with his underground home. It would rival your home, I dare say. It has gorgeous rugs and rich mahogany furnishings. No window draperies though...there are no windows! But it is all quite lovely...well, everything except for the coffin he keeps in his bedchamber," she confided in an offhand manner. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "That is uncalled for, I think and morbid besides. Don't you agree?" to which Mifroid could only nod, as he observed the young ballerina becoming more delusional by the minute.

"Would it be too forward of me to ask for a description of this paragon of the underworld, mademoiselle?" he asked snidely.

"Of course it's too forward," she whined. "I haven't finished my description of his home yet."

With an exasperated sigh, he waved a hand for her to continue. Which she eagerly did.

"He has a large library of rare books. He is a scholar and reads constantly. And just think! In several different languages. When he isn't reading, he plays music. Exceptional music! Le Fantome has a pipe organ to rival any in Paris, and he plays it all of the time. He likes to sing as well, and he does it better than any other in the world! _He _always admired my humming and he would often join in. Why, we once hummed an entire cavatina from Marriage of Figaro!" She looked with disappointment at Mifroid. "Does this sound like a criminal to you, inspector? We have had many wonderful times there, as well as our picnics in Box Five." Maria sat quietly, rolling her eyes at such nonsense, and Louise wisely refrained from looking at her. "Although we occasionally imbibed a little too much wine, I think."

"Yes, mademoiselle. I can well believe that_._" Mifroid could only stare at the prima ballerina who was so very graceful and breathtaking in the dance. So lovely to watch on the stage. So loony off of it. A shame really. But theatre people seemed peculiar in that regard. Rabbit's feet and horseshoes. The evil eye of all things. He snorted with impatience, making his mustache flutter. "I am certain you enjoyed your time with this uh...personage. You have described his abode very well, and I can see that you admire this . No, he does not sound like a criminal, but who do you believe he could be, if you were to hazard a guess? Someone you know from the opera house, or perhaps a man hiding his identity? A criminal, perhaps?"

"A criminal? Oh, no, no, no." Louise leaned forward in a secretive manner, and against his better judgement, Mifroid leaned forward also. "This is a secret, you understand," she said in a near whisper, "but I believe it is Napolean under that mask," and she sat back nodding wisely.

"The emperor himself, eh?" The inspector smiled pleasantly, humoring her. "He has been dead these past eight years, mademoiselle."

"Oh, not the _Third_, inspector. I meant the First," and her steady gaze calmly looked back at him.

"How is this at all possible?"

She looked impatiently at Mifroid. "What has everyone been trying to tell you? He is a _ghost_! Of course it is possible!"

"I believe eyewitnesses have described someone much taller than the Corsican."

"They are wrong," she said simply. "Quite wrong."

Maria decided this silliness had gone far enough, and opened her mouth to remonstrate with her niece. It was her knee that was injured, not her head. If Louise wanted the commissaire to think her a lunatic, she was doing a very good job of it. Louise turned to her aunt and stared her dead in the eye, and Maria closed her mouth with a snap.

Inspector Mifroid looked from one to the other of the ladies, wanting nothing more than to escape this madhouse. The only good thing to come from this visit was the gossip. Wait until he told his wife about the prima ballerina who thought the opera ghost to be none other than Napolean Bonaparte. Harriet would be highly amused.

He stood up and bowed to the women. The beau monde had nothing on him when it came to manners. "Thank you for your time, Mademoiselle Sorelli. I pray you make a quick recovery and are back on the stage very expeditiously," he looked at her with pity, "and once again having picnics in your private box with the...with the emperor."

"I do too. You don't know how much I wish for it," she said with a slight catch in her voice. He turned to leave, but Louise remembered what had been tormenting her. "Inspector?"

He turned to look at the young woman one last time. "Yes?"

"Were you in Paris during the Prussian shelling, and afterward when the Commune took over the city?"

He paused in the act of putting on his hat, and inadvertently squared his shoulders. "Why, yes I was."

"In what capacity?"

"I was a member of the illustrious National Guard, mademoiselle. A Communard, as they called us. Why do you ask?"

Louise shook her head, satisfied with his answer. Fight for equality is what the inspector had said. "No reason. Just curiosity. Good day, Inspector Mifroid."

After Maria saw the commissaire out, she came back to the room and stood surveying her niece. "Will you kindly tell me what that was all about? You realize many of your admirers will now think you completely mad, Louise. You will be the new topic at dinner tables all over Paris, but not because of your talent on the stage. Napolean. Picnics in private boxes. A _house_ at the bottom of the Garnier?" She went around straightening the room, plumping her niece's pillows, and finally stopped and looked askance at her. "Well?"

"I don't like where he was going with his questions, tante. Philippe and Raoul did _not _have a falling out. They loved each other. A little strained in their dealings with one another? Yes, but that was all. And the less said about this ridiculous business of the opera ghost, the better. I am beyond weary of it, and so I gave the inspector what he wanted all along- that those of us who walk the halls of the Garnier on a daily basis, are all just a little dotty. As far as me being committed to Charenton in the near future, it will soon be forgotten."

"But what happened to the singer and Count Philippe's brother?"

She shrugged. "I think they may well be in hiding," _I pray they are,_ "from a curious public," and she shrugged her slim shoulders, "maybe they saw a newspaper pointing fingers at Raoul for Philippe's...for his...his-" She stared out the window, still finding it difficult to believe that he was dead. She turned back to Maria. "I think _I_ would leave Paris for a while...at least until the talk dies down." _And maybe far enough away from a vengeful ghost?_

"It does sound very strange, but why won't the commissaire believe the others about what happened?"

Sorelli carefully stretched her leg and winced from the pain. She grimly looked up at her aunt. "Because the good inspector would rather believe that members of the ancien regime turned on each other. It suits him better to feel superior to the beau monde." Her smile was sad. "He would rather have Raoul guilty of murdering his own brother than put faith in any story about a criminal inhabiting the opera house. He is still living vicariously in the days of the Commune. Mifroid is a socialist who will never forgive _or_ forget. "

* * *

He had taken Daae. _That_ she knew. Had he let them go as he did the Persian? Or had he once again retreated to the far corners of his mind where any delusion seemed possible? Philippe's death was questionable, but she had her doubts there as well. She had to know.

Once the house settled for the night, she decided to test her knee. She could find a way to the little house by the lake, she just had to figure out how to accomplish it. She scooted over to the edge of the bed, and in the process disturbed a cranky cat. He had been curled up in contentment, satisfied to have Louise all to himself _and _the soft bed. When she jostled him getting up, he opened his remaining yellow eye and stared balefully at her. She smiled tiredly. "Go back to sleep." Pressing down on the mattress, she put most of the weight on her left leg and pushed off. Once standing, she gingerly set her right foot down, and gritting her teeth, placed more of her weight on it. With a groan, she tried to take a step, but pain lanced through the knee, and her leg buckling, she found herself reaching behind her for the bed.

"Damn it! _Damn it!_" She sat there waiting for the pain to subside and moodily stared at the cat. "I'm not going anywhere for a while, monsieur." She eased herself back into the bed, knowing she would have to wait until she became mobile again- as it stood, she would barely make any headway at all. Even if she _could_ get to the Garnier, navigating the cellars would be impossible. Force it too soon, and her dancing days would be over. She laid back and stared grimly at the ceiling, her heart heavy with sorrow, and her lower lip quivering as she felt the first tears begin to fall. She curled up as well as she could, and gave in to the grief which had nibbled at her composure since Estelle broke the news. She had loved him. If it wasn't fated to be the everlasting kind, it was at least the type which recognized a good and decent man, and she would miss him. Philippe...

She wiped ineffectually at the tears which continued to fall, and tried to catch hold of a thought sitting there on the periphery and refusing to budge. Erik was involved without a doubt, but did he kill in his madness? The comte had been strongly built, going in for many physical pursuits and managing his wide spread business affairs with aplomb. He had been an excellent horseman and a seasoned sailor, only lately showing signs of slowing down...he _had_ been tired of late. _Anything_ to_ absolve Erik, eh, Sorelli? _Hearing that sly voice again, she brutally faced her worst fear. Even if he had been hale and hearty as he searched for his brother, he would never have been a match for Erik in cunning or sheer ability to mete out violence. There, her friend had no peer.

Perhaps he meant to make Philippe disappear, then for whatever reason, changed his mind. So many ways to murder someone and hide the body. There were bodies hidden in many areas of the cellars. Her old friend Cosette was down there somewhere in a pit with other victims from the war. Louise had laid a wreath of flowers in the dungeons for her and the others when she returned to Paris. Erik had accompanied her that day. She put a hand to her mouth and chewed on a knuckle. She had to know, and having nowhere else to start, she would bide her time and look for Nadir Khan. He had once hinted at prior knowledge of her friend. Once she was back on her feet, she would go see him. Feeling a little less helpless, she fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed of icy black water and a man pulled beneath it by monstrous arms.

* * *

She stood with her aunt a short distance back from the other mourners, watching as Philippe's casket was carried from the small chapel to the de Chagny crypt. The mausoleum was a large one, nearly the size of a small home, housing generations of that noble family beneath its ancient crest. They were seven miles outside of Paris that morning, at Chagny, the ancestral seat of the comte. The sun passed in and out of the racing clouds as its heat became less and less, seeming to rush them headlong into winter, for the air had a much sharper bite to it as they stood and paid their last respects.

She shivered, and whether it was from the solemn occasion or the cold, she wasn't certain. Unbidden, there arose the recollection of chilled hands and toes in Erik's little house, and how he would range far and wide searching for wood for the fireplace- just to keep her warm. Was he warm right this moment or was he...

She snapped her thoughts aside from such thinking, although here in this place, beneath the cold sky of late autumn, the possibility wouldn't go away. She raised her chin and stared with stony eyes at the funeral procession wending its near silent way to the crypt awaiting the body of Philippe de Chagny. She was well aware of the other mourners' furtive regard, and whispers behind black-gloved hands, thinking Louise to be the late comte's paramour. She knew that her place here at Philippe's funeral was frowned upon by the de Chagny family; she was a dancer and someone who had no place among the beau monde, but to not pay her last respects to him, would have haunted her down through the years. As it was, her dreams would not be peaceful.

Maria glanced furtively up at Louise, noting her rigid stance and even more rigid gaze. It was hard on the young woman to lose someone this way, surrounded by doubt and too much left unanswered. Maria herself only knew a smattering of what had gone on that night when the singer was abducted, and although his name had never been mentioned, Maria knew Erik was involved. Louise was stubbornly remaining silent; to Maria, she was caught between two men, one living and one dead, but very soon she would have to come to terms with the truth. She watched as Raoul Christian Everard Comte de Chagny walked slowly beside his sisters to the crypt, and a rippling movement went through the crowd of mourners.

Raoul, consumed with guilt at having run away like a coward, had returned to his home ready to throw himself on his brother's mercy, only to find him dead; grief stricken, he was adamant that he find his brother's killer. Christine was just as certain he should not. Pleading with him until she was hoarse, he allowed the added vision of Erik's animal-like eyes to convince him to listen to her, and at last gave in to her entreaties.

According to Estelle, Mifroid had leaned hard on the new comte, trying to get him to admit to something, _anything_ concerning Philippe's death. He refused to budge on his story about a crazed man living in the cellars and their captivity with him, but the inspector wasn't in the mood to listen to more exaggerations and outright lies. Sorelli's idiotic tales had been more than enough. Fortunately for Raoul, there was no evidence that foul play was involved in his brother's death and he couldn't be charged with anything. Nevertheless, he remained under a cloud of suspicion.

"I don't see Mademoiselle Daae, Louise."

Sorelli kept her gaze on the coffin as it made its solemn way into the crypt and out of sight. "Adieu, Philippe. Bon retour," she whispered, and swallowed hard before replying. "No. Estelle said she is keeping out of sight until they can be married. She is staying with Madame Valerius at the moment."

The sea of black turned and walked back to the line of carriages behind them, a moving mass of black crepe and bombazine as the living buried their dead and life continued on for fashionable society. They would have much to discuss in their drawing rooms this day. Maria cast a hard look around her at the eyes glancing slyly their way, and took her niece's elbow. They were both startled when a dark figure appeared on Louise's other side. Maria looked up into a pair of vivid green eyes in a swarthy face.

"You seem to be a little hesitant on your feet, Mademoiselle Sorelli. Allow me to see you to your carriage, if I may?"

Louise regarded the very man she wanted to see and nodded her head. "I would be grateful, Monsieur Khan." She halted and turned to Maria and made the introductions.

Nadir bowed in Maria's direction, his eyes lingering a little longer than necessary. "Madame, a pleasure," then he took both ladies by an elbow and proceeded to the carriage. "You have recently suffered a mishap?"

"I fell on some ice near the opera house and wrenched my knee. I'm only just permitted to walk on it again." She looked up at him, having a difficult time hiding her curiosity. "I'm glad you are well, monsieur. The talk going round said you were not."

He never paused in his strides, which were much shorter owing to Louise's slower gait. "As you can see, I am perfectly all right. Gossip usually seems to work against that though, doesn't it?" They reached their carriage and he opened the door to hand them in, when Louise hesitated.

"I would like to speak with you at some length, Monsieur Khan. It concerns a mutual acquaintance. Would that be possible?"

He regarded the young woman standing before him, seeing the dark shadows beneath her eyes, and a mouth which appeared too grim. "Yes, it would," he said quietly.

She nodded once and studied his face in turn, noticing the deep lines carved into it; he appeared tired and careworn- much older than he had appeared the first time she met him. "If I may, would tomorrow afternoon be a good time?"

"I can come to your home if you like."

"I need the exercise, monsieur. May I call upon you?"

"By all means, mademoiselle," he said politely. He helped Maria into the barouche then turned to Louise, and gave her the direction to his home in the rue de Rivoli. "You have questions, I'm sure, young woman, but I might not have all the answers, and those that I do, you may not like."

"Then I'll have to be satisfied with that, won't I?" Her gaze was steady on his, and with a slight nod, he helped her inside the carriage and closed the door.

Thoughtfully he turned away and headed for his own hired conveyance, but paused a moment and observed the rapidly emptying cemetery. Most had now gone home to their firesides, except for the funeral party which remained in the de Chagny mausoleum. He suspected the new comte would remain with his brother long after the rest of his family had departed. He hunched his shoulders against the chill of the day, all at once longing for the fierce heat of his native land. He returned to his carriage and got in, wondering why one man was surrounded by those mourning his passing, while another much different, had in all probability died very much alone.

* * *

**Whoa, whoa, whoa, daroga! ** **Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself?** **Back up the buggy. You're going the wrong way ;)**


	31. Chapter 31

The wound in his side had been a nuisance at first. Throughout his life he'd had much worse, but his preparations to remove Louise from the stage, _or was it Christine_?- had aggravated it. He grimaced in his bid to remember, and when a name didn't present itself, decided it hardly mattered anymore. His dream of a great diva ruined to hell and gone. And Louise? His bid to take her from the stage had come to naught. For if he succeeded, where was she? "All that work and no Louise," he muttered crossly. Intrigued by the sound, he repeated it, "All that work and no Louise. All that work and no Louise. All that work-" _Stop. it. _Even if she couldn't forgive him, he would have liked to see her again. It had been two weeks since the boy shot wildly at him as he stood outside on the balcony. It had startled him when the first bullet found its target. Stifling a cry of pain, he cursed his abysmal luck and shinnied up the drain pipe hand over hand. He had paused earlier to watch _her _enter the de Chagny home before he climbed to the second story and inadvertently stumbled across the vicomte's bedchamber. He couldn't help but wonder how he had been so damnably unlucky to have one family dog his footsteps the way in which this one had.

He thought he had gone unnoticed until the bullet plowed through his scant flesh, leaving a furrow in his right side just below the first rib. It was painful, but he hadn't considered it to be fatal, although his strenuous activities of late hadn't helped the healing process any, having sprung some of his stitches. The swim in the filthy waters of the lake had been fool-hardy, but audacious behavior just happened to be his particular forte, and it wouldn't have been the first time, would it? The Siren must be fed. When his alarm bell rang informing him of guests, he had arrived to find the body floating in the water. Hadn't he planned this very thing? Awaiting the comte who was no doubt looking for Louise...or was it someone else for whom de Chagny searched? He couldn't remember, but _she _wouldn't have wanted him to leave the man there, and so he had entered the water and fished him out. He could feel the ill-affects of his swim even now, as a hard shiver raced the length of his spine, followed by the lung deep cough which had bedeviled him of late.

Taking her from the stage meant a viable escape route from the illustrious Trap Door Lover- one more for his curtain call. It had required much physical labor working throughout the night, and with a scatter wit pride, he had done just that, placing Louise's exit from the stage directly over her mark. It was a skilled piece of work, which unfortunately no one would ever see.

He never meant to hurt her. He was quite certain it was his fault that de Chagny had come to the fifth cellar. What? A week ago? He shook his head and squinted bleary eyed, as he worked to navigate through a landscape that appeared sly and furtive in its cruel game to keep moving on him. It was simply his parlor, but in his present state of mind, it was an obstacle course bent on outwitting him, using craft and deceit to keep him from his goal.

His chair had just leaped backward from his questing hand, and a Persian rug turned its edges up to trip him. "Ha! I am too damned smart for the likes of you," he sneered, grasping what furniture he could to aid his progress forward, and his fingers clutched at a green velvet arm.

Ah. The sofa was his friend and very graciously stood still. "I always liked you best," he rasped, and laughed as he found himself waiting for an answer. "Sofas do not converse, foolish ass!"

"Quite right," the sofa replied. "Listen to the man. He is the only one making any sense."

"Sly devil. So you _can_ talk," and he transferred his hold to the back of the sofa, willing his knees to stop their infernal wobbling. So damned tired. He began to cough and bent over until it passed. He had finally remembered the store of medicines in his workroom, and had used some of them, not so much out of any great wish to do so, but more from a lifetime habit of self-preservation. He had cleaned the mess in his side and smeared salve over it, then bound it back up. Now he only wanted to sleep if he could; tincture of sumac would help the fever, and hyssop syrup would hopefully quiet the damned cough. He made his halting way to his bedchamber and the coffin awaiting him there, his legs threatening to dump him on the floor any minute.

He refused to give in and simply lie down on the sofa. Oh, no. That would never do. If he didn't recover, his coffin would hold his mortal remains. "Nothing against you, you understand. Its function is more suitable for...for my needs. There is no sense of dignity with one's legs t-trailing on the floor due to your short stature. And even I must maintain a sense of dignity... no matter how..." A series of racking coughs shook his thin frame, and he bent over, swaying dizzily. "Oh God," he panted, "it hurtsss.W-Where was I? Oh yes...no matter how f-feeble a thing it is, I must maintain my dignity, for if...if I do not...who will? I meant no offense," he said in a placating croak, to his dear friend the sofa.

"None taken, Erik," it said gently.

"...understanding of you," he allowed. It was the reason for the coffin in his room- it was meant to be his final resting place, and he was damned if it wouldn't be.

"I told you, darling. Didn't your Erik tell you the coffin was a fine thing to have?" He stopped his halting progress forward and raised a badly shaking hand to his nose-less face.

He shuffled his feet forward, nearly making it to his room, when the large book of Russian fables scooted across the floor and tripped him. _She _had loved that book. "Moosh bokhoradet!" he roared in Persian, and just in case it didn't understand farsi, he repeated it in French, followed by Russian and English, "a mouse should eat you!" but by then it came out as a mere whistling of sound. He began flailing his arms to stay on his feet; once he went down, he more than likely would not get back up.

He fell hard, striking his head on an end table as he went down and landed on his wounded side. A weak scream made it past cracked lips as he lay on the floor fighting to stay conscious; it would have been a relief simply to lie there and meet eternity, but he would have none of it. He had a beautiful mahogany coffin to sleep in forever and by God, that is where he would go. He heaved himself up to his knees and paused there, fighting dizziness and the blackness coming to claim him. He slid forward on his bony knees until the wall was able to prop him up, and slowly inched his way upright until he was on his feet- precariously, but at least once again standing. He could have shouted in triumph, if it wouldn't have expended so much energy.

He swayed on his feet, his knees nearly buckling again, but he managed to skirt the book lying there so very innocently now. "Ha! Can't fool me," he wheezed, eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion. "You are merely ...a...a dumb book; I however, although very u-ugly, am not, and _that, _my friend, trumps a mildew-ridden piece of merde," and reached out a hand to steady himself against the wall.

He felt the stinging above his pronounced brow ridge and lifted a heavy hand to it, feeling the wetness running down the side of his face, and probed the ragged cut. He brought his red fingers down to eye level and peered hard at them. "_Now_ look what you have done." The blood sheeted over his eye and what passed for his cheekbone, and he swiped at it, smearing it over the side of his face and into his lank hair. Another wave of dizziness swept over him and his legs buckled, driving him to his knees. Again.

Undaunted, he used his vaunted ingenuity and decided to crawl to his coffin, his arms and legs becoming so weakened, he ended on his belly the rest of the way, the sound of his breathing a roaring in his ears. It was torturous going, and he often stopped to rest for a moment- the moment stretching into whole minutes, as he breathed hard and fast. He pillowed his head on one arm, his mind dancing in and out of consciousness, his stomach roiling in protest. He was thirsty now. No. He was _parched, _his tongue seeming to swell and fill his entire mouth, but reaching the sink was an impossibility. He even doubted now if he could make it inside the coffin, as once again he forced himself to his knees, shaking with the effort, and began to crawl. When he at last reached the platform it sat upon, he sucked in a ragged breath and raised weary eyes to it. "It is now a mountain I must climb, my darling," as he squinted one eyed at the ebony plinth and contemplated the best way to go at this.

He levered his way carefully from the floor until he could just barely hook one of the brass handles on the side of the coffin with his fingertips, and with what little strength he had left, he tugged himself upward. He cried out when the motion pulled at the wound in his side, but stubbornly, he continued pulling himself up, cursing his ridiculous height, teeth bared to the canines as he forced himself to stay conscious just a little longer. With a satisfied grunt, he finally stood shaking on his feet, staring into the red satin lining of his eternal resting place. Now he merely had to make it inside and he was all set.

With his last bit of will power, and the stubbornness which had served him well for years, he watched in detachment as one thin leg went up and over the side of the coffin, and he leaned down and forward, letting gravity tip him over and inside. He landed hard, but his goal was at last reached, and he wriggled around until he was lying on his back. _Here I am. At last. _The knowledge gave him an absurd sense of accomplishment. He wouldn't be caught dead lying about on the floor like an animal. No indeed, and he smiled his ghastly smile. Should he say some words over his remains? _Have mercy on all wicked souls in their agony. No? Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death?_ He sighed deeply, blood from the cut above his eye, soaking into the pillow beneath his head. No and no. Nothing for a man who most already considered to be dead and roasting in Hell's fires. He grinned through the blood crusting his mouth. No deathbed confessions here- someone might be listening, and he snickered.

He didn't have to cast his mind far for his last thoughts. She was already there. He could feel the edges of deep black coming to claim him and he was almost glad. He was tired of fighting and wished only for the kiss of nothingness. She had kissed him. _She _had held him in her arms and welcomed his touch- for those scant minutes, he had been so warm- content. His brow wrinkled in a frown and fresh blood oozed from the cut. But she loved another- he couldn't recall who at the moment. Just as well. She didn't want him. She had never wanted him. He had always considered her to be an intelligent girl and her taste in men just proved it. Once the dust settled and his black soul was well on its way to Hell, his solicitor would present himself at her home and leave her his worldly goods; she would always have the means to live in comfort. He managed one lovely word which would follow him down into oblivion.

"_Louise_-"

* * *

She sat carefully on Nadir's sofa, perched on the very edge, and nervously waited for him to take his seat. She had a cup of coffee in front of her, and she sipped at it, quite enjoying the taste. Coffee had always been served in the cafes, but it was showing up more and more in Parisian homes. Louise snorted. Not that it would ever take the place of tea. That would be absolutely ludicrous. He offered a plate of little seed cakes to her which she politely refused.

"Tell me."

He sat down across from her and debated where to start, and decided to begin at the beginning of this tale which reached back decades. "Erik came to my country as a very young man, Mademoiselle Sorelli. He was an orphan. I imagine-"

"His _mother _abandoned him beside the road when he was ten years old."

"Ah. I didn't know this. I always assumed his parents had died and left him alone." He shook his head. "Well, that explains quite a bit. His distrust of people, anyway. Where was I? Oh yes. He lived with the gypsies for a few years...or so he said, and when they tired of him, or when he ran away... he eventually found himself in the Gulf of Tonkin, and took up with pirates, of all things. His talk could be _illuminating _at times. Illuminating when he had imbibed too much of our strong local wine, that is. Erik was a sponge, mademoiselle; quick to absorb and adapt, taking what he learned for his own use. And he learned something of use everywhere he traveled, which was far and wide, it seems. He had many talents for one so young; he couldn't have been any older than sixteen or seventeen when we first met- with him it was hard to tell. It wasn't just the mask...Erik was born with a soul already old, I think," and he glanced at Louise, waiting for her to scoff at this, but she looked back steadily, waiting for him to continue.

The daroga cleared his throat. "He was on the outskirts of the great Russian cities, mostly traveling alone, before joining up with the larger fairs, plying his trade as a magician and seller of medicines and unguents. He was very good at both. Tales of his magic were heard on the lips of everyone who witnessed his skill in legerdemain- that and his masked face caused great curiosity. So much curiosity, that the shah-in-shah requested his presence in Mazanderan where I made my home. I was the head of the security force and cousin to the shah. He sent me to bring Erik to him at the palace to entertain and enlighten us. He did not want to accompany me at first, but I was ordered to bring him willing or not. To offer him anything within reason to get him to come with me, and if he declined, I was to remove him forcibly." He shook his head as he observed Sorelli. "I am eternally grateful that he agreed to come willingly, mademoiselle. He may have been young at the time, but he was already formidable. I saw him subdue a drunken fool at one of his shows- broke the man's hand _and _his nose, in less time than it would take to pour you another cup of coffee."

He stopped and picked up a seed cake and looked at it before taking a bite. He observed her barely restrained impatience as she sat and listened, and never once did she show any confusion as to whom he was speaking about. He wasn't sure _how _she knew Erik, but that she did was no longer in doubt. "He was like nothing I had ever seen before. Ugly as any sin would be and as lofty as any sultan. And his voice! An offense for such liquid resonance to come from that mouth; he held many in thrall by that alone. He was very skilled in many things for a young man hardly out of his boyhood, and he wore dignity like an article of clothing, but that which he would never remove. When I brought him back to my home, I realized one thing about Erik which has held true even to these dark days- he is probably the most dangerous man I have ever met," he wiped at his mouth with a napkin and held her gaze with his own, "for he has a great intellect, but also a great hatred."

"He despises people because they have been cruel to him all of his life."

"Yes, that is so, but there is more to it than that. He manipulates people, and I do not think that has anything to do with his affliction. He simply enjoyed it.

"He took a position in the court of Mazanderan, sparking much talk and curiosity, especially from the shah's first wife, the Sultana Kohinoor. Her face was as fair as her soul was hideous, very much the reverse of Erik, I suppose, and she took a great interest in him. She loved to watch his magic shows during the state dinners, and was especially amused when he turned his sharp tongue on members of the shah's family and inner circle. He did not care what official's toes he stepped on, or who was shamed by his poisoned words. Slander came to him easily, and so did the humiliation of his enemies of which there were many.

"After a time I noticed something else about Erik. He had a tender heart for those with physical hardships which set them apart from others. A child with a cleft palate was treated gently by him, and one of his serving women with burns to her face was given salves and unguents he made."

"I have been subjected to his care, monsieur and I know he has compassion. And foul-tasting medicine," she added with a wan smile.

He was going to say something more, but thought better of it. He had indeed heard Erik speak her name on the night he had gone mad, and Nadir wished to know more. Instead, "I hope I am not giving you the impression that Erik was a kind and decent man, for most of the time he was not. The shah-in-shah made him into an assassin when Erik first demonstrated his use of the Punjab lasso. Do you know of what I speak?"

She nodded. "You say he was an assassin?"

"Yes, and a very good one too. He still continued as magician, but he was used more for his dexterity and stealth against the enemies of the shah. These things he did, and was amply rewarded for them, being given luxurious apartments for his use and a fine horse for him to ride. Women from the shah's own harem were offered to him as well," and he dropped his eyes from hers, wishing he could bite his tongue off, thinking it ill-advised once it left his mouth. She was hardly an innocent, working in a theatre for so many years, but some things were not spoken about, and he should have known better.

He cleared his throat self-consciously. "He was approached by the sultana for her amusement." His eyes found hers again, and except for a slight pink across her cheekbones, she showed no lingering embarrassment. "Erik, at first, had this twisted need to gain approval from her; she was a beautiful woman, and interested in him; something which had never happened before. It is no wonder, Mademoiselle Sorelli, that all that attention went to his head," and the daroga shrugged. "He wished to impress her with his skill. That is when he began his true descent into Hell."

Louise had known her friend's time in Persia had been bloody- knew he had always been far too comfortable with violence. "Doing what?"

"Kohinoor enjoyed spectacles- the bloodier the better, and she exhorted Erik to come up with entertainment worthy of that. At first it was political prisoners pitted against him in the arena, with the wretched men each given a weapon and facing off opposite Erik. As I have already told you, my people called him Abu-Uzraeel. The Angel of Death. There were usually four men pitted against him, and I tell you now, mademoiselle, he was a terrifying sight in his flowing black robes and dulband covering his head and face. You have seen the way he moves, as though jointless, seeming to flow toward one as though his feet do not touch the ground. He would simply stand there and allow the men to approach him, and they would fan out confidently, seeing a quick end to the tall one, and come at him from different directions. But before they could raise their weapons for a killing blow, the lasso was suddenly in his hand, and he quickly took down the first combatant. A neat turn of the wrist, a snap, and the man was lying dead at Erik's feet, but he didn't stop. No, he couldn't afford to do that, but those still standing did, and paid dearly for it; they were mesmerized by Abu-Uzraeel, just like the mouse is hypnotized in his terror of the snake. By the time they realized their mistake and tried to recover, he would smoothly turn and proceed to break the neck of the next one...and then the next, until they were all reduced to corpses. He never even broke into a sweat. After every _spectacle, _he would turn and face the little sultana- and bow. She would applaud his efforts with absolute delight. It was sickening and less than human, and I am not only talking about Erik. The sultana was like rotten fruit- better thrown out."

Louise said nothing, lost in that inner eye which miraculously transports the mind to a place never before visited. She could see Erik as surely as if she had been there; standing with that loose-limbed stance, seemingly relaxed, but ready to strike at a second's notice. She could almost feel the blast of desert heat against her face, smell the stench of fear, and hear the cries of the prisoners as they rushed at that black figure. She shook her head to rid herself of the stark images dredged up.

"The shah-in-shah had his chief assassin working on another project- that of architect, for Erik had suggested changes to the palace which worked out very well and revealed his talents in that direction. He was charged with drawing up plans for the shah's winter palace, and building had commenced. I must say that I was pleased with this harmless occupation. Erik was eager and delighted to be engaged thus. Almost child-like, if you can imagine such a thing."

"Even Erik was a child, monsieur," she replied stiffly.

Nadir sighed. "I meant nothing by it, you understand. Child-like as opposed to his deadly nature. He _is _different, and for that reason, plus his unique qualities, the sultana would not leave him alone, and insisted he find more uh..._compelling_ ways to exterminate those she wished to see dead. He built a torture chamber to put to death those she deemed as _her _enemies. It didn't matter who had slighted the evil woman; she had a worthy high executioner to do her bidding, and only once did he refuse."

Louise sat up at this, her heart and mind sore from the revelations of Erik's transgressions, but at last, a ray of hope. "He refused her?"

The Persian nodded and felt a numb weariness, remembering the savagery of those rosy hours. "It was a thirteen year old boy being punished for a crime his father committed. The father had run off, and Kohinoor wished to make an example of the boy in the torture chamber. Erik told her in no uncertain terms that he would not harm the child."

"What happened?"

"He received fifty lashes from a whip for his obstinacy and the boy was put to death anyway."

"Oh! How awful!" More images to horrify and disgust. She felt overwhelmed at everything she had learned today, and Monsieur Khan wasn't finished. A young boy killed for a sadistic woman's pleasure. Erik being flayed for an act of decency; punished for showing his humanity at long last. No wonder he hid it as often as he could, she thought bitterly.

"He was in a bad way for a long time; he had very little flesh on his bones even then, and the biggest and strongest of her eunuch guards was chosen for the punishment. I think what aided in his recovery was the thought of revenge. The sultana assumed things would go back to- uh, _normal, _and Erik being duly chastised, would not give her anymore trouble. She was no match for his cunning."

"Did he ever get it? The revenge?"

"Oh, yes. He poisoned her before escaping the palace, and it was blamed on some faceless enemy with much hatred for the sultana. They never knew how close it was to the truth. It was a slow, and I do not doubt, a painful death- justice was served that night. He became an avenging angel."

"Please, monsieur. I am heartily weary of Erik and his angel guises. I prefer to think of him as a man. Only that."

He gave a brief nod. "As you wish."

"Surely she was well guarded? Wouldn't they have known Erik was the culprit?"

The Persian shrugged. "Given the little sultana's sadistic tendencies and her many victims, anyone could have come into contact with the woman and brought about her grisly end. She bled to death- out of every orifice possible, and it was a slow process. Even so, the shah didn't try very hard to find the killer. It could have been anyone hiding behind an everyday face, and one with a great hatred for Kohinoor, could have plotted her murder. Revenge _can _go from dream to reality. The sultana was despised for her cruelty; minor transgressions were made important in her mind; it could have been one of her servants who lost a hand for stealing from her, or whipped for some trifling errand not discharged to her satisfaction. Or one of her women caught gossiping behind her back; that was enough to lose a tongue. It could be very little to maim or cost a life, and there were many who wished more than anything to see her dead. Poisons were not hard to come by. She was a vicious, evil snake and she brought out the absolute worst in Erik. She never realized her prized henchman would turn on her."

"Did you know it was him?"

"I would not be telling the truth if I said I did from the first, but you must understand the thinking of servants who worked for the sultana. It would be a very singular woman or man to consider murdering Kohinoor. Fail in one's mission, and it would mean a lingering and agonizing death. But it _was_ possible even if it was not very probable. I was present when Erik received his flogging; his back laid open nearly to the bone in some places, the blood filling his shoes. Most witnessing his agony considered it repayment for his sins, and watched with great satisfaction. Even delight- cheering every time the lash fell on that thin back. Mercifully, he fainted near the end of his punishment, but afterward he was no doubt plotting her death as he lay on his belly, biting back the screams as brine was applied to his wounds."

He scrubbed a hand across his face, and looked tiredly at her. "Kohinoor's death was poetic justice, mademoiselle. An execution meted out by her own executioner, and I am absolutely certain she knew it before she died. He would have insisted upon it."

"How he suffered. I can't imagine-" She closed her eyes, feeling shame and regret wash over her. She had knowingly added to his lifetime of suffering, when she refused his declaration of love the night of the masquerade. _If I could go back and undo the bitter words- the bald-faced lie of an engagement that never_ _existed_.

"Yes, he suffered, but he didn't do so quietly. He gave as good as he got, you may be sure of that, young woman." He held the carafe of coffee over her cup and she shook her head. "It was just as well that Erik decided it was time to leave Persia, which I helped him to do. The shah was at first enamoured over his assassin's talents in that regard, but at last came to the conclusion that a good thing must at some point come to an end. At first, he simply ordered me to put out those yellow eyes," he paused a moment when Louise uttered a tiny cry of dismay, "for he considered a blind Abu-Uzraeel as less of a threat, but it still left that sizable intellect of his intact; that and the secrets of the shah's palace. Revenge is a bitter dish, and it pays very well. Erik could have found his way to Constantinople easily enough and sold his information for a tidy sum, but mostly he would have the satisfaction of passing on many secrets. Therefore, the shah changed his mind and ordered me to execute him. In his own death chamber."

Her face pale as milk, Louise asked numbly, "What was it? This chamber?"

"Unlike anything I had ever seen, and diabolically clever. Erik wholeheartedly threw himself into the building of the thing and came up with a room so fiendish, it caused many a heart to quail in terror. It was a room cunningly fashioned, and painted to resemble an equatorial forest, complete with a hanging tree. The fierce heat and thirst along with the illusion of being in an actual forest alive with wild animals, would drive men mad- hence making them climb that iron tree and strangle themselves using the lasso Erik conveniently placed there." He stared across the room at nothing then turned to her with haunted eyes, "It was the room the Vicomte de Chagny and myself fell into on the evening Christine Daae was taken from the stage. We nearly died that night. Erik's sanity was gone."

"Was his sanity so far gone that he killed Philippe de Chagny?"

"He told me a few days ago that he found the comte floating in the lake already dead. He removed him from the water and laid him on the bank." He shrugged. "That is all I know. At the time the comte was making his way to the cellars, we were in the torture chamber, and the heating apparatus in the walls and floor were doing their deadly work. The mirrors only aggravated our condition, and I feared for the vicomte's mind."

Sorelli sat there in shock, her mind shying away from the image of Philippe in that greasy water, but her ears had snagged on one word. "M-Mirrors? You _fell _into a room of mirrors?" She felt nauseous, knowing without a doubt that it was the very same room in which she had been caught snooping- the day his anger exploded into something very different. His rage was more understandable now, as he had desperately wanted to keep her out of a room meant for horror and death. A room which had fed on Erik's darkness and misery. She now realized how very close she had come to her own abrupt end back ten years ago. While she sat in disbelieving silence, Nadir told her about the fight for their lives and Erik's ultimate redemption when he released them.

"I remember the barrels of gunpowder in the dungeons! It was one of the reasons he got me out of the opera house cellars. He was worried that the Communards would want to destroy the theatre with us in it. I find it hard to imagine his state of mind that he would be willing to do what he once feared."

"Only Erik himself would know his reasoning at the time."

Louise said nothing, wondering what event had led him to such lunacy. She shivered, to think how close the three had come to death by his hand. "Joseph Bouquet." She really didn't want to hear anymore, but she had come this far and was prepared to deal with it. "Did he murder Joseph?"

"Did he murder him outright?" He shook his head, and watched the leap of relief enter her eyes. "He did not go out of his way to kill the man, but indirectly he did so, for it was that cursed room of mirrors the stagehand fell into one day. I have often wondered _how _he found the tiny nail which activated the pivoting stone, for it was cleverly hidden. I can only suppose that Erik left the trapdoor open for a brief time and Buquet stumbled across it- literally. The unfortunate man was trapped there, and when Erik found him, he had already climbed the iron tree and hanged himself with the noose so conveniently provided. Erik simply cut him down and hanged him where he would eventually be discovered." He studied the young woman's pale face, feeling pity for the revelations he had revealed to her, placing an untold burden upon her shoulders. Perhaps he should have lied to her so her memories of Erik would be better ones, and not the stuff of nightmares.

"I have told you all I know, Mademoiselle Sorelli, now permit me to ask you to do the same. I have come to this country out of a sense of guilt, for it was through my intervention in Persia that allowed him to commit crimes here in France. If you are at all familiar with Erik, you know there are many men hiding inside him, and quite a few of them are decent and wise. There is much to commend him, or at least there was, and that is why I secreted him out of my country, leaving behind a corpse dressed in his clothing. He had a strong swift horse to take him to Constantinople, and that is where he went; after that I could only guess that he came here. Before we parted, I exacted a promise from him to never kill for pleasure or gain. Imagine my regret to find that he didn't keep his word to me. Which brings me to my need for satisfaction. Explain if you will, how you became acquainted with him."

And so she did. As the Persian sat and listened, he was amazed at the masked man's care of the girl ten years before, and the unlikely friendship which had grown from it. Louise sat back, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. "Why, Monsieur Khan? Why did he come back to France and feel the need to build something so foul?"

He shook his head. "We will probably never know. Erik didn't think as we did. Which is why kidnapping someone in the middle of a performance would make perfect sense to him."

"But _why?_" she cried in frustration.

"For love of that young woman, what else? He even sent me items of hers he has treasured," and he got to his feet and retrieved a small box, handing it to her. "He said he would send these to me when death was near, and they came just yesterday. See for yourself."

With shaking hands she removed the lid and gasped when she saw the yellow handkerchief that Estelle had made for her, along with her shoe buckle and what looked like one of her gloves. "These aren't Christine's, Monsieur Khan. They are mine." She glanced up at him, then back to the bits of her life he had hoarded away against a time when she might not be there. "I must see him. I must see Erik."

She had managed to surprise him yet again, but he looked at her with grave sympathy. "That would be impossible, I'm afraid. He was ill when I last saw him, and he exacted a promise from me, that when he sent word I was to post one small sentence in the L'Epoque- 'Erik is dead.'"


	32. Chapter 32

"He's _not_ dead!" she said in exasperation. "You have a box of my odds and ends, yes, but that doesn't mean what you are suggesting!"

"Then why would he send them to me?" She was proving to be as stubborn as Erik, and reasoning with her was nearly as bad. "And why would he wish to have his demise announced in the L'Epoque? You must understand how he looked to me that day, mademoiselle. His appearance was not that of a man in the best of health. His condition had sadly deteriorated."

She shook her head, refusing to believe what he was insisting upon. "I must see him. Can't _you _understand that?"

"I have just explained to you. Erik is dead." He gestured to the box of her things. "That is why I now have these in my possession. I am sorry for you _and _him. It would seem he did have a friend, but it is far too late."

"That is impossible, Monsieur Khan. He can't be," and this was said with such utter conviction, he nearly believed it himself. But he had seen Erik, and knew the look of a man with one foot in the after-life, and could only try to convince her.

He glanced sympathetically at her white face, puzzled as to why she was being so persistent. "I assure you, Mademoiselle Sorelli, that he didn't have long to live. Darius had to help him out to the carriage, for he was weak and not moving very well. If not for his legendary stubbornness, he would not have been walking at all."

"What's wrong with him?"

He shrugged. "I do not know what _was _wrong with him, except he told me he wouldn't survive it for much longer. He said he was dying of love; a man may die of many things, mademoiselle, and he instigated quite a few of those ways himself, but from love of a woman?" The Persian shook his head. "Erik was simply being... well... Erik." He had been ill; there was no doubt about that- he had arrived one evening on his doorstep, leaning on the wall for support. Darius had come forward unbidden and helped him to the nearest chair, where he all but collapsed into it. With a trembling hand he removed his hat, revealing the pale skin of his forehead, the bony expanse showing beads of sweat.

Nadir instructed his servant to bring coffee, but with a slash of his arm, Erik refused it. "Nothing for me, daroga. I shan't waste your time," and leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes. When he at last opened them, he made his request to the Persian to accept the box of trinkets when he sent them, and to announce his death in the paper. Thirty minutes later he was gone, and Khan thought it would be the last he would see Erik in this lifetime.

He looked at the young woman before him and said as gently as possible, "He was a broken man and no longer had the will or inclination to cling to life any longer. For what it is worth, I am certain he has at last acquired peace."

"You are saying he is better off _dead_? I don't believe that. Or do you mean the rest of the world is better off without him, as you keep insisting?" She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily, refusing to give in to the notion that he was gone from her. It wasn't so, and she would prove it. When she opened her eyes they were full of fire and resolve, and the Persian's heart sank. She was bound to go then, and he must go with her. Nevertheless, he cringed when she uttered the words, "I'm going down there."

"For what purpose, young woman? I have already explained to you that he was dying. Leave well enough alone, and let the dead rest. Allah knows Erik was troubled enough alive; at least allow him his dignity, and remember him as he was." He shuddered at the thought.

Louise glanced up at him with hard eyes and a grim mouth- Erik would have recognized that look for what it was- her willful nature. "Will you help me or must I find a way in by myself?" She kept her eyes on the Persian, waiting obstinately for his answer, and when it wasn't forthcoming, she rose to her feet. "Good day to you then, monsieur," and turned to leave.

"Wait, mademoiselle," and he walked over to her, effectively blocking the door. She regarded him coolly as she drew on her gloves, and he put out a placating hand. "Arriving there will be difficult enough, but getting inside will be impossible, I'm afraid. His door, like the man himself is complicated."

"I'm familiar with the door, Monsieur Khan. _That _isn't the problem. I only need to get that far- the rest will be easy."

He saw her determination, but doubted her ability to see it through. He tried one last time to reason with her, and gestured in the general direction of her legs. "What of your recent injury? This is no short stroll you will be undertaking. Is it wise for you to attempt this so soon?"

She gazed steadily into his eyes. "Wise? Probably not, but necessary. I won't rest until I see him for myself."

He put a hand to his chest, and dipped his head in obeisance. "Then consider me at your service," and he called for Darius. When the servant appeared, Nadir had him secure them a carriage, and looked at Louise again. "I have made it through the cellars before without incident, and if we proceed carefully, we can do it again, then perhaps I can swim across the lake and bring the boat back for you."

"There was an extra key for the rue Scribe entrance to the cellars. It used to be in my keeping, but after-" she glanced down nearly overcome by emotion, her preternatural calm deserting her for a moment. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the feeling of time running out weighing heavy on her mind, "after an incident which occurred, he demanded it back. I'm fairly certain he gave it to Christine, and I don't suppose she would still have it."

Nadir thought that highly unlikely. They were, after all, speaking of something having to do with Erik, and fortune was never in the habit of smiling upon him. Even if he must swim across that ill-conceived lake, the Siren was no longer there, but regardless, he had no wish to do it. He sighed wearily. He could not allow the young woman to go by herself, and he could tell by her attitude that she was bound to go through with it- alone, if need be.

Bowing to the inevitable, he took his coat from a peg on the wall, and shrugged it on. "I assume you wish to do this as soon as possible?" and at her emphatic nod, reached for his hat as well, and opened the door. "Then let us hurry and commence this folly before I change my mind."

* * *

Louise kept watch as the Persian opened the locked door beneath the stage with a thin, hooked piece of metal. She had no wish to explain to anyone why they wanted to go into the cellars, and breathed a sigh of relief when he straightened up and turned the knob.

"It is open," he said softly, and stepped inside, lighting the lantern he'd brought from his home, then beckoned to Louise. She followed him in and shut the door quietly.

"Where did you learn such a thing?"

He shrugged. "It was often invaluable in my duties for the shah-in-shah. Erik taught me the use of it." He held up the pick for her inspection. "He designed this one. There were not too many places he could not access, and that is the main reason he was to have been put to death." He looked at her, his face a sickly yellow in the glow from the kerosene lantern. "I believe in some ways, Erik was far too clever for his own good."

"I wouldn't let him hear you say that, monsieur," she said with the ghost of a smile.

"There is no danger of that, I think."

"And _I _think you need to stop talking about him as though he were dead," she replied quietly, to which he shrugged.

"I am only asking you to prepare yourself for the inevitable," he said gently, shaking his head at her waywardness. Were all dancers the same as this one? "This will not be easy, mademoiselle, for it is unlikely the boat will be at the little dock. I will have to swim that lake and retrieve it for-."

"You said that you and Raoul fell into the torture chamber from the third cellar," she said, cutting him off- rudely, in his opinion.

"Yes, that is exactly what we did," he replied impatiently, annoyed by her obvious lack of good sense, "and almost died because of it, but surely you don't mean to go in that way again? Mademoiselle, it is utter madness to even consider such a thing. Something could still go very wrong. It is set to operate when the room becomes occupied- there would be no way out for us, and I don't know how to open the panel from inside the chamber. I tried that before with no results. We could be trapped in there, and with Erik-"

"But I do, Monsieur Khan. You need only show me where the trap door _is_, and I will do the rest. I understand completely why you don't want to go back there, but I must."

He stared at her, wondering if she was also touched by insanity- just like Erik. He had no wish to go traipsing through the dank and gloomy underbelly of the opera house again. The very thought of entering Erik's bizarre little home where he nearly died, was repugnant to him, therefore, with the very best of intentions, he tried one more time to talk her out of it. "Even if you succeed in getting inside his home, what will you do? The man is dead and you will in effect be entering his tomb. Are you reconciled to that possibility?"

She regarded him with over-bright eyes and shook her head. "You will be proven wrong. He is not dead and I wish you will stop such talk," and she again eyed him expectantly. "Well?"

"I hope you find what you are seeking. Whatever that may be," he muttered beneath his breath, acquiescing to her. It was still very fresh in his mind what that masked demon had nearly done to him and the vicomte. If they did by some miracle find their way in, and Erik was as dead as he had suggested to her, it would go very hard for the young dancer, for as inconceivable as it seemed, she did indeed count Erik as her friend. What other motive aside from his culpability in the comte's death could she have, to insist on revisiting the scene of Erik's latest madness? Friendship of this caliber was rare indeed, and bespoke an affection that many could only dream of having in their lifetime. For one such as Erik to acquire it, Nadir would have once considered nigh impossible.

"We need to find a means of climbing out if we have to exit the way we entered. Look around you for a ladder, or even a chair that is high enough." Louise nodded, and searched the shadows as they took the stairs to each level, and finally gave a small cry of success when she spied a cluster of wooden crates. They were shoved up against the second set of stairs, covered in cobwebs and dust, apparently undisturbed for years.

Nadir handed the lantern to her, and emptied two of the boxes on the floor; they were loaded with odds and ends of refuse collected by any cellar over years of occupancy, and she made a face when a desiccated rat tumbled out with the rubbish. "These will do, stacked one upon the other," he said, eying them with disfavor.

She remembered a time when a chair and a book had done the very same thing, leading her to a dangerous moment in Erik's embrace. Now she wished more than anything to have his thin arms around her once more. Feeling the panic trying to break free and overwhelm her at what they might find in his house, Louise forced herself to patience.

Down the wooden stairs and to the right in the third cellar, she saw the gloomy shapes of the set pieces ahead of them, and let out a shuddering breath. Nadir crouched down at a particular spot on the floor. "Hold the light close to my feet, if you will, mademoiselle."

She complied, and said with a faint smile, "I think you may call me Louise after this bit of skullduggery we are attempting."

He nodded. "The very same civility to you," he replied succinctly, and moved his hands slowly along the floor in small circles until he stopped. "I have found it," and pulled her back out of the way. With a slight grating noise, the square stone rose and pivoted to the side, exposing a featureless hole from which a dank, chill odor assaulted their noses.

At any other time she would have been intrigued by this cunning bit of craftsmanship, but for now, she could only think of getting inside the house. Louise moved forward with the lantern and stared into the opening, where so very long ago she had been caught trying to leave. She hung the light down into the black maw and could see nothing but a dull sheen reflected back.

"Hold the lantern down as far as you can and I will go first- _if _I can get my feet moving." His mouth was dry and his hands shook at the thought of going back into that hellish room, but he nevertheless looked at her one last time before slipping into the opening. "You will hand the crates to me when I say, and then I will help you down if you are still eager to do this thing." He paused and looked hopefully at her. "Are you?"

"Yes."

With that one word spoken so fervently, he smothered a sigh, and with Louise holding the light close to the opening, sat down on the edge and dangled his legs into that inky space. A strange fear developed, expecting any moment to have his exposed legs snatched, and pulled through that gaping hole by an enraged opera ghost. He thrust the disturbing thought away- Erik was surely dead by now, and would not be able to sit up, let alone haul his Persian hide through the trap door. The idea of the masked man no longer among the living, did not bring him any joy. For one so ugly and treacherous, he had been intelligent, with ofttimes a knack for being amusing. He lowered himself into the torture room, mumbling a prayer beneath his breath.

Louise watched as as he turned and carefully lowered himself down by his hands, until he finally let go and dropped from sight. Lying on her stomach, she immediately shoved the lantern through the hole, and he gratefully took it from her.

"Allah have mercy," he said quietly.

"What is it?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"Erik took a sledge hammer to most of the mirrors. And the door is open. If you will, hand me the crates and I will help you down," relief evident in his tone.

Sorelli did as he requested and she was soon standing beside him in the room, after indecorously lowering herself feet first through the opening. She had hovered precariously until the Persian guided her foot to the top crate and she stepped carefully, having no wish to re-injure her knee; it had held up nicely, only feeling a little stiff. He had helped her safely into the room, keeping his eyes respectfully down as she slithered backward in a flurry of petticoats into the opening. He managed to put his hand on her shoe instead of a very shapely ankle, before assisting her down from the boxes.

The lake water had filled this room to nearly over his head, before Erik opened the cocks to wet down the gun powder, himself and Raoul nearly drowning in the process. Erik had fortunately listened to Christine's pleas and drained it, leaving behind the stench and debris of the lake. He cleared his throat and hesitated at the ripe, mildewy smell which pervaded the room, but another far sinister odor was there as well.

Sorelli, getting a faint whiff of it at the same time, numbly looked at him before turning away. She gazed around her at the shattered mirrors which ten years ago, had once reflected her numerous fourteen year old selves pirouetting to a silent melody. A layer of silt covered nearly every surface in the room, and strands of slimy growth festooned the infamous iron tree, making it appear bizarrely festive. The elusive odor of decay assaulted her nostrils once more, and she thrust the horrifying thought away before it could take hold, sliding the door open more. She stepped into the Louis-Philippe room. The door here was open as well, and gas light filtered into it.

"M...L-Louise. Please remain here until I-"

"No. Don't say another word, I implore you," and on trembling legs she walked to the kitchen as the odor became stronger. The house was completely quiet and still; nowhere near as lively as it had been after her return from an absence of ten years. The afternoons of tea and companionable bickering, had meant so much to her, as they settled comfortably back into their friendship. Surely they would have those times again? But the little house had a neglected feel to it now, and clearly showed signs of some minor struggle; rugs were haphazardly turned up, and a small lacquered table lay on its side. She gave a start of surprise when she spied the Russian book of fables lying abandoned on the floor. With a false sense of calm, she turned and followed the odor of spoilage to the kitchen, disturbing a mouse nibbling at some bread on the counter. It quickly scampered away at this invasion of its bountiful find.

He didn't say anything as he followed, once more amazed at the normalcy of this home in the opera's cellar. It was like many of the Parisian homes he had visited. He entered the kitchen and saw her standing motionless in front of the wooden ice box, whose door had popped open, revealing the source of the smell. Packages of meat and fish wrapped in white butcher's paper- all, no doubt left over from the days when Christine was there.

Louise opened the top door to see the drip pan loaded to the brim with melted ice, which had found its way to the floor and stood in small puddles. She stared at the spoiled food and shivered. "He never did eat very much. What would he do with all of that food if no one was here to help him eat it?" she said faintly, and glanced up at the Persian then, her eyes filled with sorrow. She straightened her shoulders. "This doesn't mean anything. He...he simply forgot about it," and left the kitchen with Nadir following her to a room down a short hallway. She paused a moment outside the open door, staring at a smear of something on the wall beside it.

He peered a little closer at the smear. "Is that blood?"

"Yes," and taking a couple of deep breaths, walked in.

She kept her eyes on the coffin in the middle of the room, its sable drapery pulled back at the four corners, providing a macabre frame for the object held within in its soft folds. She walked trance-like toward it, inexorably drawn forward, her steps becoming slower, dream-like, as though she waded through a viscous substance dragging at her legs- her skirts, as it tried to stop her forward momentum. Not even the knowledge that she had done this before, many times over, could stop the inevitability of her walk toward that bed of death. She must see for herself. This was her nightmare then. The knowledge caused her a brief moment of terror- not for anything that could physically harm her, but what it would mean for her peace of mind- her very happiness. She had dreamed it the first time in a cell not very far from where she stood now- dreamed it during the dreary days of the Commune. She had known it instinctively when she came back to Paris, and Erik had first shown this room to her. She didn't want to look. Dear God. She didn't want to _see_. She cried out in her mind- that interior voice shouting at her to stop and turn around. Leave. He was in that coffin and he was dead, lying there stiff and cold. She had lied to herself and the Persian all along. He was dead to her forever and she had helped him do it.

"No," she whispered, as she shook her head slowly from side to side, negating what that devious voice was insisting. "No," she said louder, and this time there was a thread of belief in it, as her feet took her up to the side of the coffin and she looked at last upon the strange man she had secretly adored for ten years. Even as she had gone about the business of living her new life in Naples, he had been there in the back of her mind, waiting. She stared at him through eyes blinded by tears, stared at his bloody face at last unmasked, the appearance of it giving no sign whether he breathed or not- he had looked the same all those years ago when she had ripped his sanctuary away and left him exposed to her horrified gaze.

Her eyes skittered away even now from his face, and she put a hand over his, feeling the unnatural heat of it- his touch had always been cold. Not dead then, but she was frightened nonetheless as she held tightly to his long fingers, anger and love warring with one another. Rage bloomed and powered her breaths as she stared at this man who was intent on stealing all the light from her world. "Oh, no you don't, Erik," she bit out, as her hands grasped his forearms, and tugged at him, her intent becoming terrifyingly clear to Nadir, "you're _not _leaving me like this. You, sir are staying right here where you belong. How dare you?" she cried in a strangled voice, "How d-dare you?"

"Mademoiselle...L-Louise! What are you doing? Allah have mercy! He is dead. Let him rest now." He was revolted that she was trying to remove a corpse from his bed of choice. Erik was dead just as he had tried many times to tell her. It made perfect sense to him that he would expire in such a neat and tidy fashion, saving the drudgery of burying him. It was very thoughtful of him; much more thoughtful than Erik had ever been alive, and now this young woman would force him to do it anyway.

"He's not dead, so do be quiet and help me get him to that settee over there!" and she continued to pull at him, her fingers curling into his coat, and heaving him upward.

The Persian was about to forcibly drag her away from the body, when to his horror, it made a noise. It had groaned feebly with a wet sounding wheeze, and Nadir nearly jumped out of his skin. Sorelli, in a state of anger and triumph, glanced over her shoulder as she continued to manhandle the Angel of Death, who fit that name very nicely now, to his disgust. At least the last part was apt, for he was certainly no angel. That he was alive, as Louise had insisted all along, was a circumstance in which he couldn't decide- blessing or curse?

"I told you he lives! Now, help me!" She kept her gaze on Erik's closed eyes, too much of a coward to take in the whole face at once, and squealed in surprise when they snapped open.

He sucked in a tortured breath, pinning her with a bleary-eyed stare. "What are you doing?" he wheezed in a faint voice. "I...I just got in the damn thing, and you want me...out..." He started to cough wetly, nearly choking.

He sounded exhausted and quarrelsome, but to Sorelli, altogether wonderful. She raised his head, her knees weak with relief. He was alive.

She looked around for something to catch the phlegm in, and turned to Nadir. "Do you have a handkerchief?"

He reluctantly fished it out, handing it to her, and she held it up to Erik's mouth. "That's right, mon coeur. You will breathe all the better now." She rubbed his thin back, feeling each sharp knob of his backbone, while he coughed painfully, and expelled a mouthful into the cloth.

Nadir gestured distastefully at the sodden handkerchief. "Keep it."

Erik licked at dry, cracked lips and fought to stay conscious. "This is my dream, you old goat. Get... out," and his head bobbed as he searched frantically for Louise, frightened that just like a fragile soap bubble she would pop. He reached a shaking hand out to her, trying desperately to focus his eyes on her face. "You...get in. ...my last wish," he croaked, staring at her suspiciously, for he considered Sorelli to be a product of his fevered brain, nothing more. The existence of the daroga in his hallucination was immaterial. He was merely an irritation, just as the man had always been, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could make him disappear. Nonetheless, he would enjoy this sweet vision of Louise that he desired more than anything, before she popped. "I want to die in your...arms..."

"Not today, Erik," she told him grimly, and resumed tugging on his coat. She stared implacably at the Persian, who hastily took hold of the man's thin legs.

"You are a... soap b-bubble. The slightest movement..you will burst," and he stared all the harder at her, willing his heavy lids to remain open. "You aren't really here. I conjured you- "

Nadir looked at him in disgust, then dropped his eyes from that ruined face. "You are not making any sense, man! Soap bubble?"

"He's sick! Of course he's not making any sense." She looked with concern at Erik, her thumb lightly skimming the lurid rainbow of bruised flesh surrounding the cut above his eye. It had crusted over, dried blood covering the side of his face and matting in his hair. "You hurt your head."

"... book tripped me and I...I f-fell. The...the sofa lent me an arm," and a laughing snort erupted, followed by more coughing. "It's my only friend," he gasped.

Nadir rolled his eyes at this idiocy. "You have strange friends indeed."

"Not your only friend, silly man," she crooned, and nodded at the settee, "We'll put him over there for now."

Khan threw a glance at it, and shook his head at the woman's stubbornness. "There isn't enough to hold him. He is too long."

Louise shrugged it off. "We'll move him to the other room presently. He's not staying in this thing. I won't allow it," and she sent the coffin a look of absolute hatred.

"Yes, I can see that," he said dryly, and tightened his grasp on Erik's legs, beseeching mighty Allah to forgive him for this sacrilege. Once again he was aiding and abetting a thief and a murderer. The sick man was in no way heavy, but it was awkward all the same with his long limbs and torso. The Persian quite liked _this _Erik- he was perfectly harmless, like a poisonous snake minus its fangs, but he kept his eyes averted from that death's head as they maneuvered him up and over the coffin's side and at one point, he grunted in pain.

"Hurts-"

"What does?"

"My...side. Christine's boy shot me," his voice slurred in surprised exhaustion, "he didn't even aim..." and rolled his head a fraction to find her. "Thirsty..." he groaned, as she swam in and out of focus. "Louise?"

"I'm here...I'm here," she soothed. "He shot you?" but there was no answer from him, for he had fainted. "Mon Dieu. As if he wasn't sick enough- he has a bullet wound," she said in despair. "I _knew _it was him that night!"

"The vicomte _shot_ him? When?"

"He was shot and I was there that night. How much worse can this get?"

"His lungs are affected," the Persian said, trying to be helpful. "Hear how he breathes?"

"Yes," she replied testily, shooting him an annoyed glance. "Thank you for telling me something I didn't know," she felt Erik's head resting heavily between her breasts and sighed, "but he's alive and I intend to keep him that way."

"He might not even _make_ it to the settee," and he tried to temper the little bit of hope prevalent in his tone.

She glared at Nadir as though he had suggested simply dropping him and walking away. She kept her arms wrapped around Erik's chest, his head slipping down to rest against her stomach, and Nadir sighed in resignation.

"My only hope is that you may not regret this," as they struggled with their limp burden, and at last the Persian laid his end onto the settee, Erik's long legs hanging off the end of it by a foot or better. "He had _more_ room in the coffin."

She ignored him, snatching a neatly folded blanket from the sofa back, and covered the unconscious man up to his waist. With shaking hands, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, peeling them carefully away, and worked to untie the knot holding the bandage in place. Slowly, she pulled one edge of the soiled cloth back, bracing herself to look at the bullet wound. She gasped sharply and looked up at Nadir, her face pale. "Do you remember how to get to my home?"

"Yes. It is in the rue Chaveau."

She nodded. "Go there and bring my aunt back here quickly. Tell her Erik is hurt and...and ill." She paused momentarily, all at once contrite with this man who she had coerced into coming back to a place he nearly died. "Please hurry," she beseeched him. "Are you familiar with the rue Scribe entrance? Yes? In the drawer of the table in the foyer, you should find a large brass key. He always kept it there and it opens that door." She looked up at him momentarily. "Nadir? Forgive my abruptness. You are indeed a brave man to come here with me, but I need my aunt now."

He had learned a valuable lesson this day; never argue with a determined woman, and with a nod, took himself off, leaving her alone with Erik.

Louise, meanwhile, fetched a basin of hot water and some cloth. She padded the angry flesh wound in his side with a towel and wiped the dried blood from his face, pretending she was well used to his features. She felt unsettled from the smell of blood and the feel of it on her hands- queasy from the quick glimpses of his poor face. It would take time to get used to it, especially the very center where a nose would normally have taken up residence, but Sorelli brutally shoved aside her aversion, and took a few gulps of the stale air before gently wiping his face. She tied a clumsy bandage around the ragged cut above his left eye, critically surveying her handiwork, and sighed. "Not very good, but it will have to do for now."

She pulled the blanket up to his chin then went to the coffin, and removed the pillows inside. She managed to get them both under his head, raising his upper body a little to aid in his breathing. Louise watched him briefly, reluctant to leave him even for a minute. "Stay with me," she entreated that motionless figure. As she was leaving the room, a small pile of debris carelessly swept into a corner, caught her eye and she moved closer for a better look.

Pieces of glass winked up at her, and surprised, she looked about her at the obvious signs of destruction she had missed. The curio cabinet near the davenport where Erik now lay, was empty of curios- they were no doubt in the pile of refuse on the floor. The bedchamber door and the few pieces of furniture, were scratched and splintered, divots of wood gouged out and appearing very much like raw wounds; even his beloved pipe organ, minimal as it was, had taken some damage. She knew without actually knowing, it had been the night of the masquerade. Erik had decided to take his madness out on his belongings rather than an innocent by-stander...for which she could only be grateful.

Sorelli went to the kitchen and filled a tumbler with water, momentarily glancing at the smelly ice box, knowing it would have to wait. She returned to his room, just as he was showing signs of returning consciousness. Slipping an arm behind him, she raised him up and held the glass to his lips. He swallowed some of the cool water, then his head slipped sideways and nuzzled into her shoulder.

"...like this dream-"

She lightly cupped his jaw. "I like this one better too," she whispered.

He burrowed his head further into her shoulder and Louise was disturbed by the unnatural heat of his skin. "Erik?" She set the glass down on the floor, and eased him back on the pillows. He was in that restive state which passed for sleep in sick people; moving in and out of consciousness, not really aware of what was going on around him as he verged on delirium. She covered him up to the neck, smoothing the blanket over him, and sighed raggedly. The fear and anger she had felt as she viewed his body in the coffin, hadn't gone away. She was ashamed of her anger in the face of his illness, but she couldn't rid herself of it, and helplessly the words began tumbling out. She had been so very frightened.

"Why couldn't you leave well enough alone? _Look _at you! You can't even stand up by yourself. What did you gain by any of this? Tell me, Erik...what did you gain?" She wanted to shout at him. She wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled. She was just getting started, and couldn't understand her anger when he was lying so still. She had begun to cry, her anxiety of the last few hours had worn her down, her nerves raw and exposed. "You have been s-shot a-and you are so sick." She wiped at her streaming eyes and nose with the heel of her hand, her other one having crept out to clutch at his shoulder, needing to feel him; to know he was still with her. "You're a m-mess, my friend." She studied her clumsy bandage and tenderly pushed a lock of lank, black hair off his brow. "What did you expect? Florence N-Nightingale? I am a dancer, not a n-nurse."

It didn't occur to her that she was talking to an unconscious man; she didn't care at that point whether he heard her or not. She could no more stop herself than Erik could climb off the settee and dance her around the room. Her fingers hovered over his bandaged forehead. "What did you do here? Hmm? It looks like you ran into a door." She hiccuped on a sob and her hand made its way into his hair. "I-I _know_ what you want from me...what you want to hear. All right. Fine. I'll say it. I'll _say_ it, and then maybe you'll get well." She leaned over him and whispered into his ear, "I love you. There. Happy? _I love you."_

He never moved as her fingers continued to stroke his hair, her face red and blotchy from crying, and she couldn't get rid of the hiccups. "You know...you aren't what I pictured, to tell the truth. I n-never thought love would look like you. I pictured a man who would make _me_ swoon," and she laughed on another hiccup, "not actually do the swooning." His breathing sounded torturous in the quiet room. "You are a mess and I don't know what I'll do if you don't get better." She peeked at his closed eyes, nearly invisible in their cavernous sockets.

"I really don't know what I will do."

Relief was the paramount emotion at the moment; as confident as she had been with the Persian, secretly she had been filled with a horrible certainty that he was right- they would find him dead. In her state of mind, letting herself believe it, would have made it so. Her nightmare come true at last. As it was...perhaps they would yet have the time to talk together...share memories. The chance to love.

She smoothed the blanket over his lean frame and stood up. She would heat some water and gather bandages for her aunt. He was alive, and for now, that was enough.


	33. Chapter 33

Maria followed him deeper into the passage, hoping she was doing the right thing. She had met this man but once and didn't know him from any other; he was a stranger to her, but the sincerity in his tone and the honesty shining from his green eyes convinced her to put her trust in him. She had little choice where her niece was concerned. She clutched her late husband's worn black satchel; the one he had used times without number on calls involving torn flesh and broken bones. He had carried it with him in the wee hours of early morning, helping to bring new life into the world, or sitting at a bedside vigil, easing old ones out of it. Maria had usually been by his side. Her Ennio.

"Monsieur. Are you sure they're down here? It doesn't seem possible."

His steps slowed as he turned to her. "I assure you, madame, it is indeed possible."

"You say Erik is hurt? What was he doing in this dark place?"

"He lives down here."

"_Lives?_" Maria went quiet. Louise told her long ago about Erik's home in the opera house. But this? Her niece had lived for months in this gloomy place far below the ground. Better yet, that Erik lived here for years didn't seem possible. Who lives in the dark like a mole would- burrowing below the earth, coming out only when the sun has set?

"Yes. For a number of years the cellar has been his home," he replied, as he led her deeper into it.

"How long have you known Erik, Monsieur Khan?" Her French had improved with use, and she could now converse with relative ease.

"Long enough, madame. He is not one to be taken lightly. Even sick," he added.

"He is very fond of my niece and she of him. He would never harm her."

"I have seen her affection for him, Madame Renaldi. I believe now that Erik loves her as well. You are right. He would never hurt her- at least in his own mind."

"And you? He is your friend also?"

Nadir shook his head. "Friend, I think is too strong of a word. We have at times aided each other as comrades will do." He looked at her, wondering how much he should tell her about Erik, and decided to say very little at the moment. There was a good chance the Trap Door Lover would not survive, and stirring up the bloody past might do more harm than good. "He is not an easy man to know, for he gives very little of himself away. Your niece probably knows him better than anyone alive."

She nodded once. "Let us hurry then."

When Maria entered the house, she stared with unbelieving eyes at a normal looking parlor that could have graced any middle class home; the only thing that struck her as odd, were the baskets of dead flowers scattered about, dropping their withered blooms on tables and floor. She was led dumbfounded down the short hallway and into Erik's bedchamber. Her startled glance fell on the coffin in the middle of the room, before her eyes traveled to the Dies Irae flowing blackly from wall to wall, her mouth falling open in an almost comical mixture of wonder and dismay.

Louise was sitting in a chair pulled close to where the sick man lay. She glanced up from her anxious observation of his ruined face, greatly relieved to see Maria. She jumped up and went straight to her aunt and threw her arms around her neck. "He's so sick, tante! He labors for every breath," and not waiting for a reply, she tugged Maria over to the settee.

"He was awake a handful of minutes, but he's been unconscious for the most part now; just senseless muttering," she said anxiously.

While she had waited, Sorelli unwittingly began her campaign to _learn _Erik's face. She would study it until she no longer feared it- no longer wanted to cry over the terrible burden he had been given. Sitting beside him, she had been afraid to look directly at his face, but what made sense in a way, was the gradual perusal of it- a little at a time. She started by looking at one side first, studying the cheekbone pushed abnormally high, and the cheek itself appearing as though it had simply collapsed. Not so bad, she reasoned, although the skin itself was papery thin and dry- at the moment it was bruised a rainbow of colors on the same side as the ragged cut on his forehead. Moving on, she did the same with the other cheek, then traveled down to his jaw and cast her eyes along his bony chin, which she was well used to. Her gaze lifted upward to the hollow eye sockets where she could see his closed eyes better than she ever had without the mask to hide them. She had smiled a little in surprise to see thick, sooty lashes fanned across his discolored skin- those had been hidden as well. She was putting off the inevitable; by-passing the center of his face where there was very little cartilage or flesh, simply a hood of bone sheathed thinly by skin surrounding the nasal cavities.

She steeled herself, raising her eyes then, and stared at the nose he had been born with, and although her heart had jumped into her throat, she kept her eyes there for another minute. She would look at his deformity in dribs and drabs, then gaze on some part of his anatomy that was normal- beautiful even. His hands- once thought to be skeletal and bony, she now viewed as dexterous and skilled; she studied his ears, and found them to be nicely shaped, lying close to his head. Back she would go to the center of his face, and unthinking, her fingers reached out and lightly touched his cheek. God had made him hideous, and in a fit of remorse thrown Erik a bone by making him intelligent, and giving him a voice she felt certain, that like his face, resembled no other.

But now her clever aunt was here and she would keep him alive. Maria crept up to where the man lay unmoving and for all appearances was dead. She had seen much in the years of helping her husband on his rounds in their community; she had witnessed bad burns that went through multiple layers of skin, leaving behind terrible scars. She was witness to what a shotgun blast could do to a man's leg as it pulverized muscle and deep tissue. But gazing upon Erik's face was the sight that topped them all; _this _was what had been sitting at her dinner table while its owner made witty conversation. That the man had existed as long as he had with such a travesty to be kept hidden away, and still manage to retain his humanity, was indeed a miracle. For her niece could not love someone who wasn't at his core, a good and decent man. Maria felt profound pity in her heart for the extreme cruelty he must have suffered because of it. All of this in ten seconds, and then she turned to her niece and became a different woman.

"Very hot water, child. I see you have bandages laid out. Good, good. Is there another room aside from this one? He needs to be in a regular bed and his clothes have to come off." With these words, her aunt took command of her friend's care, and both Sorelli and the Persian were going off in different directions on her terse orders. Maria did an examination of Erik, and Louise readied the bed in the Louis-Philippe room. As she made preparations for its occupant, she took a chair and placed it in front of the hidden door into the torture chamber. She wasn't taking any chances with her aunt ever finding out what was beyond the elegant little bedroom. Maria was a fair minded soul, not given to judging people, but this would be too hard to explain, and Louise wouldn't even know where to begin. She herself still had many questions, the most important being Philippe's death, but Erik was alive, and she would do all she could to see that he remained so.

Between the three of them, they moved him into the other room, and Maria shooed her niece away while Nadir helped her remove Erik's clothes. Once done, he was sent to the market.

Not knowing what else to do, she grabbed a gunny sack and began cleaning up the kitchen. Wearing a look of pure revulsion, she scooped pieces of rotten chicken and eggs into the bag and set it outside the door. She was making a pot of coffee just as the Persian returned with some much needed supplies. Pouring him a cup, she started out of the room with coffee for Maria, but paused beside his chair.

"I don't think I can ever thank you enough. If I didn't know any better I would assume some small affection does exist in you for him."

He took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. "I have known Erik for years, and he has always managed to baffle me. He can be the very devil, make no mistake, Louise. But he has good in him, and you see that as well as I."

"Yes."

She joined Maria as she tied off a fresh bandage to Erik's head. "It will heal fine, I think. I have cleaned the bullet wound; there is infection, but I can only do so much without medicines. It is the congestion in his chest that worries me the most." She took her niece's hand and looked at her gravely. "He has pneumonia, Louise." She nodded at the leather satchel sitting at the foot of the bed, "I have nothing in there to treat it. Perhaps a doctor-" and Maria looked hopefully at her, but Sorelli shook her head.

"No. That's out of the question, tante." She reached a hand out to Erik's, lying limply on the counterpane and stroked the back of it, the once cool skin warm, almost hot. She stared at his rail thin body, his chest laboring to get enough air into his lungs, and felt the despair eating away at her hope.

Maria watched the light going out of Louise's eyes, and took her by the arm, steering her toward the door. "All right. No doctor, so we must treat him ourselves. He needs a mustard plaster applied to his chest, or at least something to open those breathing passages and an expectorant to get rid of the mucus. Show me Erik's workroom."

"Yes, of course! Why didn't I think of that?" Her hope rising again, she led her aunt down to the end of the hall and threw open the door. Maria started reeling off what she required, and they began their search. "Mustard powder, or if not that, then the seed, and we can grind our own; eucalyptus oil would be wonderful, and lobelia for the congestion. We need to get his breathing under control first, then I'll want something to make a fomentation for the bullet wound to draw out the purulence."

She turned briefly to her niece and looked steadily at her. "Who shot him?" She said this almost casually, as she went about the room searching through the neatly labeled bottles and apothecary jars for what she wanted, and with a satisfied cry, she picked up a jar holding mustard powder. "I am going to make a plaster of this to put on his chest once a day. Any more than that and it will burn him, but it should ease his breathing. There are herbs here for reducing fever, which we will also use." She looked admiringly around the small room. "This is quite a fine collection of medicines Erik has. I am impressed." She glanced implacably at her niece. "I'm waiting, Louise. Who shot him?"

"It was an accident. I'm not sure of the details, but there is nothing to worry about, except to get him better. All right?" It wasn't the whole truth, but close enough for now.

"Yes," Maria said finally, "now find me a thick towel I can use for a plaster." She paused once more and regarded her niece seriously. "I can't promise that he'll come out of this. He's very sick- exhausted as well, and it's too damp and chill down here to aid in his recovery. If we get him out of danger, we need to consider moving him to a different location to convalesce."

Sorelli stopped on her way out the door and gave her aunt a somber look. "I can't lose him," she said quietly, and went to get a towel.

Her aunt stared after her. "I knew that a long time ago, cara."

* * *

Maria left the mustard plaster on for as long as she dared, and in the meantime, managed to get some hyssop syrup down Erik's throat. Louise held his head up while Maria got him to swallow most of it, and soon after that, he began mumbling.

"Iss a damn mess, 'roga...not a child...juss a boy...won'-" He started moving restlessly, at one point opening his eyes and staring right at her. "Bones ony... No skin lef'...Hurtsss..." and he moaned, the sound causing Louise to grab his hand and hold tight to it. Just as suddenly as he began, he stopped, slipping into a twilight sleep of dreams and memories.

She watched him as he mumbled and went quiet. "I thought he was awake," as she eased him down on the pillows and smoothed his hair back with an anxious hand. "How can he swallow when he's not even conscious?"

Maria shrugged. "Reflex, I suppose. Or maybe he is aware of us somewhere in the part of his mind that is still awake- perhaps he is responding to _your _voice, Louise, and understands in some way that we are trying to make him well. Who knows? The human mind can be a tenacious and wonderful thing. Hopefully the syrup will break up some of that congestion, along with the mustard plaster and he will breathe a little easier." She left it on another ten minutes then removed it.

Sorelli stared at his chest in dismay. "It's burned him! His skin is so red."

"That's what it does, and that's why it can only be used once a day for thirty minutes; any more than that and he'll blister. With Erik, it could be made worse- he is very fair-skinned, and it's not healthy skin by any means- he would burn easy, I expect. I'll use some of that salve later and massage it into his chest. That way we can make another plaster tomorrow without burning him too badly." Maria stood up and wearily stretched. "Get some cool water, Louise, and we will sponge him off. It will make him a little more comfortable."

* * *

The searing inferno burned him everywhere, and he at last knew what his victims had experienced as they slowly lost their minds to the suffocating heat in the chamber.

He would give his very soul to have one spot anywhere on his body that was cooler. He looked slowly around him, the very act of lifting his extremely heavy head, draining his remaining energy. Feverish animal eyes stared back at all the gaunt, ugly men lost in the forest of tall green trees, mimicking his slightest movement.

His damn bones ached! He was sore all over, and now wondered if one of those devils in the arena had managed to beat him at his own game. No, not the arena. Persia and the rosy hours were in the distant past- _weren't they_? He heard the angry muttering behind the door leading into the Louis-Philippe room and listened as it grew louder, becoming a dull roar. Among those shouting his name, he well knew the damned Persian was there, as was Christine and that buffoon she had allowed to ruin her greatest gift. They were there with those howling for his blood- the monster who dared to dream he was a man.

His eyes continued their trip around the room, until they fell upon a body huddled in a fetal position in a corner of the room. She was lying there in white gauze skirt and bodice- her slender arms and legs turning bright red from the building heat in the room. She feebly moved her head, her long brown hair lying plastered across her face- hair with a touch of fire in it, and he made a sound deep in his throat. "Louise?" He held a shaking hand out to her, wondering what she was doing in this room; he had caught her here once before and..and... "Why, Louise?"

Slowly she raised her head and looked at him from eyes swollen nearly shut from the heat. "She won't let me go," and she stared up at the viewing window- the window built for the express purpose of watching the suffering within. The torture chamber he had built to entertain that she-devil...the sultana who had never considered him to be a part of the human race, but merely her deadly toy to wind up and set loose.

"Hell-born bitch," he whispered, staring with disbelief at the woman who had tried so hard to cast him into the fires of perdition.

_She_ was dead though. He knew that...didn't he? One of his last performances before leaving Persia forever. He had entered her bedchamber one night after his back had healed into a mutilated mass of ropy scar tissue, that once relatively normal part of him, now just as hideous as his front. He had climbed through a window thrown open to catch the night breezes, and amid the clinging scent of night jasmine from the gardens below, he released the brilliantly green boomslang snake he had stolen from the traveling fair passing through. It was a lovely collection of exotic reptiles, and he had been suitably impressed by it; the boomslang was highly prized, as well as being one of the deadliest snakes in the world. He made sure it was properly agitated before placing it in bed with her, and the angry snake had bitten her at the nape of her slender neck, not once, but twice. His method of execution was polycephalic; two heads, which meant two sets of fangs- it was a freak of nature, much like him, which he was quite sure the sultana would have appreciated- if she hadn't been so very busy dying at the moment. Kohinoor had cooperated nicely, by awakening at the opportune time. In that one second before paralysis had set in, her eyes widened in horror at her executioner, and Erik had smiled back as he grabbed the boomslang, shoving it into the sack before it could crawl away. He would return the proprietor's chief money-maker to him, for his snake had done a lovely service for Erik. It was something extra special for the odious bitch who dared to have him whipped. He had felt those agonizing lashes to his skinny back for months, as the skin scabbed over, broke open, and scabbed again, leaving him racked with pain for weeks.

The rest, as they say, was history as the venom did its deadly work, spreading its poison through her bloodstream as she bled out until there was nothing left to keep the foul creature alive. He had the best seat in the house, watching her as she watched him, her eyes frozen in terror and filling with blood, unable to move or make a sound as her life ended, knowing _he_ had been her killer. It had been a supremely satisfying moment. A moment that was now coming back to haunt him as the murderous creature threatened that which he loved.

He reached out to Louise again, wanting nothing more than to get her out of this hot box which was sapping her strength, and using up the fluids in her body until she became a dried husk. Soon she would begin to hallucinate, and when she could no longer stand it, his darling would seek the iron tree with the lasso silently waiting for her to climb up and...

"No..." Extreme fright drying his mouth even further, he looked up at the viewing window, and wasn't surprised to see the little sultana standing there, wearing an evil grin, her obsidian eyes like polished black stones.

"Take me!" His impassioned shout was nothing more than a feeble croak, which had no affect on her; she stood perfectly still, watching him with vicious satisfaction, as though waiting for something to happen. His eyes burned in their cavernous sockets as he turned and stared at Louise with growing horror; she was becoming weaker, and he could not make his limbs answer to him and move toward her. They would no longer do his bidding. He put a spidery hand to his face and pulled breath into straining lungs. So damned hot! An errant breeze slipped through from somewhere and eddied around him, sliding deliciously cool fingers over his blistered skin. Too cool. He started to shiver, and where he had once been hot, he now felt an awful chill shaking his thin bones apart.

Erik's eyes filled with helpless tears. "Dearest girl-" he whispered through dry, cracked lips as a giant shiver raced up his back.

He struggled to one knee, but found he didn't have the strength to stand, and collapsed back to the floor. She opened her mouth and spoke his name softly, and emboldened, he began to crawl toward her, but even that was beyond him. He fell onto his side panting heavily. "You must leave... There is only pain and suffering here. It is a place of death...you must live."

She merely looked at him, then cut her eyes up to the window.

He followed her gaze to where the she-devil stood waiting. For what? He swallowed hard, hearing the dry click in his throat. "You can do it!" he rasped. "Simply go over and open it. You of all people know how. You opened it that afternoon I found you poking about in here. Remember?" Another shiver went through him so violently, he bit his tongue, his mouth filling with blood.

Louise pointed to the viewing window high on the smooth wall, and he saw the sultana's pale face, obsidian eyes gleaming with malice as she viewed the occupants in the torture chamber. He shook his head. Kohinoor was dead, and he wheezed a laugh. Oh, yes. Yes, she was certainly dead. She has all the time in the world. _Time for what?_ The answer niggled at him- it was there. The horror was there, and his mind grasped at the edges of what it had yet to reveal. He had to know.

She stared dully at him. "She won't let me leave here alive, and you know the reason why." She looked at him with such disappointment, he whimpered in shame, and rubbed his eyes, exhaustion threatening to take him under.

"What does she want?" knowing exactly what was required. His shivering had finally stopped, and he felt the warmth once again seeping into his aching bones.

"Your suffering. She wants you to grovel before her." Louise knuckled her gritty eyes. "You did kill her, you know."

He looked up at the window and said defiantly, "_Only_ if she releases you. Only then will Kohinoor get her wish."

Louise was sitting on the floor, legs drawn up tight to her chest, her cheek resting on her knees. "She can _make _you."

"Only one has had that power over me. I will be damned if I give it to anyone else...unless she meets my price."

He glanced quickly around as the room was suddenly whisked away, leaving him dizzy and disoriented, and in its stead was a clearing in which shade became only a distant memory. They were surrounded by the trees, but minus their shelter; the very cruelty of the baking sun while longing for the coolness of the trees, was superseded by the pure Machiavellian slyness of it. Well, of course it was sly! Hadn't this been his crowning achievement? They were ringed by the magnificent trees alive with birdsong, sitting in a clearing and allowing that blazing equatorial sun full rein to cook them in their own juices. The cool shadows beckoned; he could even hear the burble of water from somewhere, and it maddened him. He looked at Louise and knew she felt the same, as a harsh sob slipped from her mouth; they were slowly going mad from thirst, but he couldn't see beyond the trees, and couldn't move from the clearing and away from that unremitting sun. He cocked his head when he heard the roar of the lion. It sounded close. Once again, he tried crawling to Louise along the floor- no, not floor. It was dirt and sand, for it was scratching relentlessly at his flesh. He looked down at his chest to see tiny beads of blood. It hurt. But then, what didn't?

He continued his helpless sideways crawl to Louise, who watched him with dead eyes. If he could only reach her side, he would be all right. _They _would be all right. But first he had to convince her to leave. The damned door was here somewhere. Think, man! You created this nightmare. Where is the door? The unrelenting heat continued to pour down on them, and he could feel the skin on his feverish cheeks peeling away.

He tried to focus bleary eyes on her; long strands of hair were stuck to her sweaty neck, that long graceful throat where he longed to place his lips. She sighed loudly, as she plucked hair from her red skin. "I can't breathe in here," and she started to cry. "It burns, Erik! Make it stop!" She looked at him in distress as she held her hands out to show him the blisters on her palms. He coughed dryly, the heat suffocating him, the burning in his chest refusing to go away. He cast a desperate glance around him searching for the door he _knew_ was there, and at last spied it through the leafy boughs of a giant tree standing alone at the very edge of the clearing. The door was just past the tree, to the right of it, and his relief was so great, he hung his head and closed his burning eyes for a moment.

He stared at her intently. "Go to the door, darling. It is just over there past the iron tree. See it over there? The one with the noose dangling from it." _What? _No. He shook his head in dismay. No noose. Just a trick of the hellish light.

"Go past the tree and the door will be there. Open it just as you did before. You can do it." Erik tried once again to stand, but his legs would not obey him. He looked at her earnestly, but she refused to meet his eyes.

He started crawling toward her, moving on pure will alone, pulling himself along as another round of painful coughs racked his body. "Get up, damn you!" He dragged himself toward her, teeth bared with the effort, wanting so very badly to touch her. He inched forward snail-like, and was finally close enough to stretch out a hand to her. "_Look _at me!"

Slowly her head came up from her knees and he cried out at her poor face, burned red and raw, her eyes now displaying the edges of insanity. His hand remained out, willing her to reach for him, and he cried out in relief when she did. His fingers were able to curl around hers, and he was content for the first time since he found himself in this place.

"You _must _leave here. Now." He held onto her hand and indicated the large tree. "Go past it and you will find the way out. Promise me... _Promise,_" he hissed.

Their fingers curled together giving each other strength, and she at last nodded. "I love you, Erik," she whispered, and she smiled tenderly at him. For that one moment, her eyes were clear and bright as she leaned over him and wiped his cheeks and forehead with a cool cloth. He shook his head at the image of her dear face hovering over him. Not real. It wasn't real. This room was their reality, and her doom if he couldn't persuade her to move.

Not real. He shook his head, glancing up at the window where that sinister figure stood. "She can do nothing but frighten you. Go now, Louise," and she nodded. He felt utterly devastated when she let go of his hand, and badly shaking, got to her feet. He was dizzy with relief that she was leaving this terrible place; so much so, that he felt the room spinning and heaving around him. She looked back one last time, then turned away and began making her shambling walk toward the door and freedom.

He watched her go, and called out in a hoarse voice, the burning in his lungs heavy and painful. "I love you," he croaked harshly. "Remember that."

He looked up at the window which was just at the tree line, his head wobbling with the effort. He felt the triumphant grin spreading across his dry, cracked face as he observed the empty window. He felt a deep satisfaction that the sultana had apparently crawled back into her pit of iniquity and was again bathing in the fires of Hell. She had lost- Erik had won. But his look of triumph died as he saw another face appear at that window, and he reeled back in shock as Christine's fearful eyes stared beyond him at something. He turned and searched the shadows beneath the trees for any sign of Louise.

His glance fell on the iron tree, and his smile of victory died a painful death as he watched Louise climb it laboriously, making her torturous way to the uppermost branch and his lasso dangling there.

"No," he whispered into the dreadful silence, even the roar of the lion and chittering of the birds had ceased as though waiting. His terrified eyes went from Louise balancing herself on the limb as she inched toward the very end of it, back to the frightened face of his former student. "No," he cried hoarsely. "Let her out!" and in a panic, stared with burning eyes at Christine framed in the window, her look of horror mixed with pity. She stared fixedly at a point beyond him, and his head swiveled around on creaking tendons, stiff and nearly unyielding, as Louise placed the noose around her slender neck. He tried once again to get to his feet with no success, as his legs thrashed weakly on the ground. Defeated, he tried one last time to stop the inevitable, and turned to the woman in the window. "Let her out, I _beg _you!" She did nothing, watching his deep abiding terror with helplessness.

"Christine, no! Christine!" He screamed in agony and felt his fevered mind breaking at the sound of Louise's body abruptly dropping, filling his ears with the awful sound of it. She was gone and it was his fault. Now he too would die.


	34. Chapter 34

"He's not breathing!" Louise cried.

Maria rested her hand on Erik's chest and listened closely, hearing the rales in his lungs and looked at her niece. "He is still with us, cara; his body is fighting the infection, and it has worn him out. Erik has only slipped into a deeper sleep, poor man. The mustard plasters have helped, but he needs something else to move things along. Bring me the kettle of boiling water, quickly."

When she came hurrying back, Maria shoved a small table up to the bed and poured the hot water into a basin, adding eucalyptus and peppermint oil to it. The fragrant steam rose into the air, its sweet scent over-riding the smells of the sick room.

"Hold his head over the basin, Louise," she responded tersely, and the younger woman did as she was told, while her aunt grabbed a towel and draped it over Erik's head, making a little tent.

Louise supported him with one hand pressed firmly to his chest, the other grasping his shoulder, and with Maria's help, kept him bent over the basin of steam. His head bobbed as he protested this further insult to his battered self. "Unhand me-" he muttered feebly, trying to straighten up.

"Hush now. It will help you breathe better," she said quietly, but his eyes had already closed. She glanced up at her aunt, anxiety replacing her false calm. "He doesn't even know us."

"No," she agreed. "He seems to have worked himself into exhaustion along with everything else. Maybe he is better off drifting within his own mind. Come. We will try again."

Once the water had cooled, her aunt whisked it away and exchanged it for new. Louise leaned him against her side, sorrow and anger once again taking center stage with her emotions. "Damn you, Erik! Don't you _dare_." She looked helplessly at his face as his mouth opened to suck in a wheezy breath. "Just remember how stubborn you can be," she whispered, as her fingers crept through his lank hair.

Maria changed the water three different times, adding more of the oils to it, and watched him closely for signs that the congestion was beginning to break up. Louise, spoke to him quietly, hoping on some level he heard her.

"Once you're better we can go for walks in the Bois- in the evening, of course, and look for plants. Won't that be pleasant? And c-carriage rides- just the two of us, and we will have a picnic beside the road and drink Tokay and eat macarons-" She leaned down and whispered something in his ear, eagerly studying his face for a response. "I do," she said fervently, and was disappointed when there was no reaction from him, only his chest rising and falling with his struggle to breathe.

"Cara," Maria said a half hour later, ready with another round of the steamed water. "I don't know what else..." but her words stuttered to a halt, when they heard a loose rattle from the sick man, and to the two women, it was the best sound in the world. It was followed by the sweet music of air being scooped into straining lungs, and Erik started to cough wetly, bringing up the mucus which had sat so heavily in his chest. A very relieved Maria began rubbing his thin back. "That's right, caro amico. Remove it so you may breathe. "Very good, very good."

She released a deep sigh and swiped hair from her brow. "He is breathing a little easier, and I think we will alternate this with the plasters." She turned and studied her niece's face, noting the easing of that pinched look she had worn since this trial began. "The congestion was becoming too much for his body to handle. We can only try and make it easier for him to get breath. The rest Erik must do for himself." She stood there for a moment and directed her niece, "Sit on the edge of the bed and keep him upright. I'm going to fix another mustard plaster."

Louise did as her aunt bid, holding him so his head rested against her shoulder. He felt so frail in her arms as she held him close, but he had always seemed that way to her; it had proven to be a false assumption. _But not__ now. No, not now. _"I thought you said too much of it will burn him?"

"It is going on his back," and went to the kitchen to get it ready.

Louise, holding on to Erik, inched slowly to the top of the bed until she was against the mahogany headboard, making sure that he remained upright. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek on his head, daring to hope again. She thought back to what he had been shouting an hour ago, when he had become so still and she thought he was gone from her.

The name he had uttered.

It wasn't hers.

She had been wiping his face and neck off with cool water, when he had become restless once more. She was used to his ramblings by now, but this had sounded different.

"Hell-born bitch."

It was uttered in that raspy voice which sounded nothing like his usually dulcet tones. It wasn't anything new to Louise; in fact, hell-born bitch was relatively inoffensive compared to some of the other words he had used in his mind's wanderings. Some of it was in foreign tongues, and it was probably best that she didn't know what he was saying. Once, in milder terms, he called someone offal from a pig sty. She cringed to think that Erik might have been describing _her _in his febrile ramblings.

She ran the back of a hand across her sweaty brow. The room was as hot as Maria's kitchen on baking day; the little parlor stove had a good coal fire going in its grate, and a cool breeze would have felt wonderful right then. The fireplace in the main room was ablaze as well, for Maria wanted Erik's little house warmer than toast to knock out the damp chill always prevalent in the cellars.

They had him propped up on a mound of pillows and his breathing had moderated a bit, leaving Maria to work on the bullet wound. They placed cheesecloth soaked in witch hazel, alcohol, and vinegar on the bullet wound which had plowed a ragged furrow through his flesh, just below his armpit. They worked steadily, leaving on each fomentation for approximately twenty minutes, then removing it, only to replace it with a fresh one. That it stung his skin and caused more pain for him at first, was borne out when he became restless and started to moan.

At one point, his eyes opened and he stared furiously at her aunt, effectively anchoring her to the floor. "Erik's turn," he hissed through clenched teeth. "...slit your worthless throat. I..." his harsh words trailed off, as more of the congestion broke up, and he began to cough.

Maria well knew he was out of his head with fever, but the savage gleam in those strange eyes had unsettled her. He had casually offered to murder her. She was unknowingly face to face with a killer for the first time in her life, and for that one moment, she was afraid.

Louise blanched at his caustic words and her aunt's temporary paralysis. She straightened up tiredly, her back aching along with her heart. She felt disheartened and sad. "He didn't mean it, tante. Erik would never speak to you that way. He respects you too much."

Maria smiled faintly and stored that tiny moment away, resolved to forgetting it. If Erik lived through this, he would almost assuredly be a part of her family someday, and she had no wish to step carefully around him forever. "Well, of course he didn't mean it! He's wandering around inside his own head right now," she had put a few stitches in the wound, and gently as possible, smeared salve over it before binding it up, "and it's not a very good place to be, judging by what he has said so far. He is a man who has had a very..._colorful _life it would seem."

She momentarily left the room, only to return with a bucket of cold water and some clean cloths. Louise stepped up to the bedside and put a hand on Maria's shoulder. "I can manage by myself for a while. Go rest on the sofa. Nadir won't be back for a few hours, so it will be quiet for you."

Maria gestured to the bed where he was becoming agitated again, his head turning restlessly on the pillows, as though searching in vain for a cool spot. "How could he stand to live down here all these years? Away from the sunlight and fresh air?"

"Because it was safer for him, I think. Erik never had normalcy. No one ever thought he was worth the effort. He could pretend otherwise living here. No pointed stares or threats of violence." She put a hand over her eyes and tiredly rubbed them. "No whips."

"I saw the terrible scarring on his back. I am surprised he did not die from it- from infection. But who would do such a thing? Whipping is-"

"Nadir said it happened in Persia many years ago," Louise said quietly.

Maria was disturbed by the knowledge that he had been beaten so cruelly. She was beginning to think that the less she knew about Erik's past, the better off they all would be. She stretched her tired muscles and looked at his face with pity. "He needs that salve massaged into his chest, cara."

Louise had taken the bucket from her aunt and set it beside the bed. She turned Maria around and gave her a little push toward the door. "Yes, I know where it goes. Don't worry. If there's a change, I'll come and get you."

Her aunt looked doubtfully at her. "Are you sure?" She gestured toward the bed. "He has a completely different set of words when he is asleep. You are getting a quick education in the coarse side of a man's tongue, and Erik's is very imaginative. I've never heard a woman called one of _those_ before."

"Neither have I," she said dryly, "but scene shifters _and _ballet masters have a ready arsenal of their own, so don't worry about me."

Maria's face reddened a bit as she watched her niece put the back of her hand to Erik's forehead and wince at the heat. "Louise," at her aunt's careful tone she looked up, "you have never cared for a sick man alone. Maybe I should-"

She had already sat down on the edge of the bed and was dipping the cloth in water. "I know what a man's chest looks like, tante," she said lightly, wringing out the rag and placing it on Erik's forehead as he began his mutterings again, this time comparing Nadir Khan to the hindquarters of a donkey. "Go on...go rest. We'll be fine," and her tone implied that this line of conversation was over, as she pulled the covers down to expose his narrow chest.

Maria shrugged, too tired to argue anymore with her niece. She put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Yes. I know you will be. I will pray for him tonight," and left for a few hours sleep.

Louise opened the jar of salve and scooped out a good handful, and looked up somberly as he started moving restlessly again. She smoothed the creamy paste into his hot skin, the smell of witch hazel, mint, and eucalyptus reaching her nostrils. She felt the scant flesh beneath her palm, his pale chest almost completely smooth, save for a few curly black hairs. She licked her lips as she stared at those springy hairs, the moment curiously intimate, and her massage turned into a caress, her hand pressing palm down right over his heart. She listened to his rough exhalations, studied the bony protrusion of his breastbone, and wondered again if he would recover.

Her fingers seeming to work independently from her brain, found themselves cupping the sharp blade of his jaw as she leaned in and placed a butterfly kiss to his chin, before sliding her mouth up to place one on his lips as her hand lightly stroked his chest. The impropriety of what she was doing, hit her finally, and she pulled back as though scalded. What if Maria walked in right now? But the simple touch of lips to lips, relaxed something tightly wound in her as she again pushed the heel of her hand into the little hollow in the center of his chest and worked the salve in. Apparently it had the same affect on him- he had quieted down considerably. She wiped her hands on the edge of a towel and wrung out the wet cloth, running it gently over his cheeks and forehead. While she worked, she studied his blighted features again as she had been doing for hours, and discovered the old adage that one could become used to anything. She found it to be very true.

It wasn't quite as shocking as it had been ten years ago, when his unique features had been made worse by the rage and lust which distorted them. While she gazed at him, she was once again taken by the lashes which were thick and startling black against the discolored skin beneath his eyes. She rinsed the cloth out, bending low over the bucket sitting on the floor, then turned back to Erik- to find his eyes fluttering open and gazing at her with lucidity. She watched as a faint smile stretched his thin lips and his eyes creased at the corners, struck by how different it was, looking back at a face no longer hidden from her.

Louise put fingers to his jaw and caressed it gently. "I love you," and swore he leaned into her hand before his eyes closed again. A deep sigh turned into a cough, and she slipped an arm beneath his back and held a rag up to his mouth. "That's right, dear man...get it out of there. You'll be all the better for it." When he was finished, she got him to drink a little water, then laid him back down and covered him again.

"Promise," he whispered, barely discernible to her ears. "Promisse..." and began restlessly moving about. She looked up in relief when her aunt had entered the room.

Maria watched the sick man as his head tossed in agitation on the pillows. "He's having another bad dream."

"Yes."

"Christine?"

She could only stare at the bed as Erik uttered the soprano's name in a voice filled with heartbreak.

Maria had looked at her niece, noting her white face. "Go on. Go and rest now," and Sorelli nodded wearily, having no wish to hear the girl's name again.

"_No_. Christine!"

Erik had become quiet after that outburst, and frightened by his very stillness, the two women had gone to work on him. The steam had finally broken up the worst of the congestion, and Louise was left feeling numb with relief.

She sighed now, wanting nothing more than to find a corner to huddle in and cry. She rubbed her cheek against the top of his head while she waited for her aunt to return with the plaster. He began muttering again, and she caught snatches of what he was saying; enough to piece it together anyway. He was complaining about the managers and their lack of sense, but he had used words which were much more crude and offensive. She chuckled a little when she considered how spot on he was about them; his rant over Richard and Moncharmin soon made an abrupt turn into what he would like to do to _her_. His words were choice and descriptive, and before long, her cheeks were just as red as his. All the same, she held him tighter. "I for one _hope_ you may be able to do all of that and more. Just don't say those things in front of Maria."

He at last quieted down and was so still, she grew nervous, putting a hand over his chest, and was comforted when she felt its rise and fall. He would begin his restless movements again when her aunt applied the mustard plaster on her return, but for now he seemed to be a little more at ease. She wearily closed her eyes.

Maria slipped into the room and stopped as she regarded the sight before her- Louise's body curled around the sick man's, her cheek resting on top of his head. She stirred when her aunt touched her arm, and for a moment was disoriented, feeling the weight on her shoulder. She glanced at the slender body she held, and reflexively tightened her hold as the grogginess wore off. She yawned widely and mumbled tiredly to her aunt, "He is sleeping a little easier, but he's still very warm."

"Well, by the look of things, he is no worse and this is good," Maria said coolly.

Louise slipped her arms from around him and got up, stretching the kinks out of her spine. "He seems to be breathing a little better too. I uh... You told me to keep him upright," she replied, her tone defensive, "it was easier this way."

Her aunt smiled faintly and sat down in the chair by the bed. "All right, Louise. You may stop the blushing. I meant nothing by it. At the moment, he is certainly not capable of anything passionate," which produced another blush from her niece. "It is a bitter thing to watch the man you love suffer. I know this."

_It is not Erik you need worry about,_ _tante, _as she recalled her hand wandering over his chest, her mouth on his.

There was no denial of her feelings now; it was out in the open- and she was glad. "I want him better. I have never wanted anything more." She bit her lip and looked at him. "Even if he no longer feels anything for me."

Maria said nothing to this; it was the least of their worries at the moment. "Let's turn him over," indicating the mustard plaster, and Louise helped her move Erik to his stomach while she adjusted the plaster between his prominent shoulder blades. Maria clicked her tongue for the one hundredth time at his thinness. "Just give me a few months, and I will put some fat on those bones," she murmured. "He needs padding just about everywhere."

"What?" Louise turned to her aunt as she muttered to herself, dropping her horrified gaze from the badly marred flesh of his back. She shivered from the realization of the tremendous pain he had suffered all those years ago.

"Nothing." She looked thoughtfully at her niece. "I haven't made bucatini in a while, have I, Louise?"

"Uh...no, you have not," and she glanced sharply at Maria, "but I think we will be having it soon, won't we?" to which her aunt merely smiled.

He was quiet until the plaster began to work, and Louise crooned to him, "Shh. It's all right-" Gradually his movements stilled, and she got tiredly to her feet and stood looking down at him, feeling a certain amount of despair herself. His thoughts laid bare- he was grieving for the young woman who left him here to die. But she herself had allowed another to take root in his heart, plucking her out of it.

"Louise? Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"Who is she?"

_"She _is Christine Daae, and Erik was her voice teacher."

"Of course. The one who was taken from the stage."

"The very same. Brought down here, and according to Nadir, Erik meant to force her into marriage."

Maria shook her head emphatically. "I do not believe it. Not for a minute. Fond he may have been of the girl, Louise, but he loves you."

"_Fond _is an awfully mild word to be kidnapping someone from a stage in front of a full House, tante."

She glanced at her niece sharply. "It's not the same as he feels for you, cara. Trust me, I know this."

"But I don't," she whispered, and stared at the man who had become the center of her world.

Her aunt wiped her hands off on the edge of the towel and glanced up at her. "Go lie down for a while. I can manage him alone. His breathing seems to have eased some."

She gave Maria a wan smile, leaving Erik in her care for the remainder of the night.

She sank down on the sofa, thinking about this new twist. Of course he had felt affection for the young woman- after all, he had taught her how to lift her voice to the heavens; had spent hours in her company, enthralled by the beauty of her crystal tones. But he had saved _her _things, not Christine's. Why would he do that? She ran her fingers through tangled hair as she pulled the pins out and let it fall loose on her shoulders. As she kicked off her shoes and laid back on the sofa, she wondered what other revelations she would discover when he awoke. Because he _would_ recover from this- to think anything else, did not bear scrutiny.

It was her fault that he fell in love with the young soprano. She left him alone when he needed her the most. There was still the knowledge that he may have been involved in Philippe's death, but she refused to believe the worst until she heard it from him. She chuckled without any humor- that's how this entire mess started. This time she would have a little faith. She closed her eyes, but she couldn't close down her thoughts. If need be, she would settle for what they had always meant to each other- dear friends. He could always use one of those, and if it hurt unbearably at first, she felt that in time it would get better. Christine was gone for good, but _she_ was still here. And she wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

Louise was in the kitchen a few hours later cooking breakfast for them, when the Persian walked in carrying a small covered pail in one hand. She eyed it speculatively as he set it on the table. "It's broth for Erik. My servant Darius made it for him. How is he?"

"Still very ill, but he's fighting, and my aunt is encouraged." She took down a cup and saucer from the green cupboard and turned to the stove. "That was kind of Darius."

He shrugged. "Erik did something decent for his family a long time ago."

She poured him a cup of coffee and offered him some breakfast which he refused. "Thank you, no. I have already eaten, but the coffee is welcome."

"Care to tell me what it was?"

"What do you...oh, you mean the good deed he performed?" He sat down at the table and picked up his coffee cup. "The fifty lashes Erik received for his refusal to kill that boy? It was Darius's nephew."

"How terrible it must have been for both of them," she said quietly.

"It is years in the past. In spite of his fear, Darius had a certain rapport with him. Well, as much as Erik ever had with anyone, I suppose. Is he still asleep?"

"He is awake now, Monsieur Khan, and he is anxious to see my niece," her aunt said tiredly as she came into the kitchen.

The Persian climbed to his feet and bowed his head respectfully. "Madame Renaldi. This is good news."

Louise turned away, her throat tight. She poured her aunt a cup of coffee and forked some ham onto a plate, adding a slice of bread to it. Her eagerness to leave the kitchen was not lost on the other two, but she hesitated. "Is he lucid?"

Maria smiled. "Lucid enough to ask for you four times. Erik is still very sick, but his fever is less, and his breathing is a little easier. He was horrified that his mask was gone. I told him he would do better without it, but he is stubborn man. He is wearing it now, but try and convince him to leave it off. I wanted to give him a good wash, but he insists he can do it for himself. I would like to see him try! He was much more cooperative when he was asleep." She turned to the Persian. "Perhaps you may help him, monsieur? No matter what Erik says, he will need assistance."

Nadir had gone deathly pale. "I really don't think that would be wise, madame. If he says he can manage, then I for one believe him! It would be foolish to offer him help when he does not require it." Foolish _and _dangerous, he thought dismally.

"Nonsense! He is still very ill. Of course he will need help with his personal needs."

Sorelli looked between her aunt and the Persian. "If I get him to agree to your aid, will you help him?"

Defeated, Nadir could only nod wearily, resigning himself to viewing parts of Erik's anatomy he had absolutely no wish to see. He wasn't at all happy to be joining these women in their nursing duties, but Maria smiled at him, and he felt somewhat better. She was a fine looking woman.

"In a little while we will put another mustard plaster on him; in the meantime, I will fix him something light to eat. Oh, and take him a cup of that tea I prepared, and get him to drink all of it," Maria said, eating her breakfast. "He prepared it in his workroom from pleurisy root, and it is a good expectorant. It will also make him sweat out the fever."

"Nadir brought some broth, tante."

"How thoughtful, monsieur. That will be perfect, I am sure." She glanced up at her niece as she departed the kitchen, and her look was stern. "_All _of it, Louise," to which she nodded and hurried out. Maria finished eating, and started heating the broth. "You have been Erik's friend for a long time?"

"I have _known _Erik for twenty years, madame. Friendship is not what I would call it, no."

"He is a gentleman. I know that."

"Yes, he _can _be."

"He has had a hard life. What did he do in your country?"

"He was the principal architect for the shah-in-shah, and the court magician- among other things." He would not mention Erik's duties as assassin. He had told Louise, and if she chose to share that information with this woman, that would be her prerogative.

There was violent death in his past- she was certain of it. She would not meddle in their lives, but put her trust in her niece's judgement. "What an interesting life he has led, Monsieur Khan."

"Yes, Madame Renaldi. You could say that," he replied dryly.

* * *

She left the two of them talking, and smoothed her wild hair, realizing how frowzy she looked, but there was no help for it as she walked slowly to the Louis-Philippe room, hesitating outside the door. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and went in.

She felt her heart leap with joy to see him awake and watching her as she approached the bed. She tried to speak around the lump in her throat, and said in a falsely light tone, "Well, it's about time you woke up," and smiled as she set the cup of tea down, reaching for his hands. His fingers immediately closed over hers, dragging them up onto his chest and cradling them close.

He stared hard at her, afraid to blink and have her disappear; she was alive and well after watching her climb the iron tree and- He shook his head, feeling the humiliating burn of tears. No. It was only his damnable mind once again having him slog through a false landscape, and he had no wish to tumble back into that terror riddled dream world. "I never thought I would see you again," he whispered. Heavy-eyed, he watched Louise, feeling content for the first time in months. Years? He tried to summon up an assertive tone, but even to his ears, it sounded weak and pitiful. "I am dying, and I prefer doing so in your arms."

"You're not dying, Erik."

"I am."

"Why do _I _feel as though we've had this conversation before? You've been very sick, it is true, but Maria insists that you are going to recover. She's warming up some broth Nadir brought with him."

In a faint voice, "The Persian is in my home?"

At her nod, visions of being enticed to eat untold amounts of food by Maria Renaldi and forced into it by Nadir Khan, caused him to groan in anguish and repeat, "I am dying, and I would rather do so in your arms, if you don't mind. These old bones can take no more, I dare say."

"Old bones," she huffed. "Your bones cannot be much older than forty, so don't be silly. You're only being melodramatic, I think, so I'll forgive you your cynicism this time."

"I believe _forty_ has come and gone. More like forty-three, give or take. I am never quite certain how many. I do not keep track of them as they go by." He studied Louise with weighted lids, feeling by turns, wildly gratified to see her, then wishing he could throttle her. Cheeky wench. "And I believe I would be in a position to know if I were dying or not," he snapped weakly, as he held her hands to his mouth and kissed them repeatedly.

"Erik, you are _not _dying," She sat down on the edge of the bed, and tugged one of her hands free, putting it to his forehead, relieved to find it a little cooler. His long fingers once again captured her wayward hand, holding it to his chest like a man hoarding treasure.

"Louise-" He allowed his eyes to slip shut; his chest still hurt, as did his wound, which was a dull throb; he felt frightfully weak, but maybe he had been a little too hasty. He could breathe a bit easier, and _she _was with him.

His mouth felt slimy, and getting a slight whiff of sour sweat, he muttered, "I smell quite rank."

Louise smiled. "Yes. You do."

The teasing gleam in her eyes made him quarrelsome. "Well, there was no help for it. I was hardly in a position to do much about it, was I?"

"You _weren't?_ Of everyone I know, I assumed you would find a way," but her chuckle was warm and her gaze did much to mollify him. His grip tightened on her hands.

She was content to sit quietly beside him, not exactly certain when he would release her hands; his hold wasn't very strong at the moment, but she was touched by the tiny kisses he had placed on them. She wanted very much to ask him about Philippe- about his reasons for taking Christine then letting her go, but resolved to say nothing until he was a little better.

"You have been very ill. You still are, but at least your fever is less and your wound is clean." She tried to pull away from him, and he tightened his grip again; not wishing to upset him, she permitted it. Recalling her aunt's words, she decided to reason with him, and cleared her throat. "Um...Maria is very p-pleased with...with your progress, Erik," she peeked at his eyes before dropping hers, her index finger inadvertently stroking the back of his hand, "but...but you would be better off without the mask- for now," and at her words, he immediately stiffened.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible," and she knew she had a fight on her hands.

"But why not?" she indignantly replied. She prided herself on her acceptance of his deformity; her attitude was hard-won, and the fact that she no longer cringed upon viewing it, made her feel like she had won a small victory. "You have been without it for hours! Why does it make any difference, now that you're awake?"

"Because I feel less of a man without it, and that isn't very much at the moment after...after the indignities I have put you and Maria through."

"Well, in my eyes you are every bit a man!"

He snorted, which immediately became a cough. She held the cup of tea out to him, and once the coughing subsided, he took a sip, nearly choking, as he forced himself to swallow it. His thin mouth puckered up in disgust. "Merde! _What _is this swill?"

Louise, working hard to keep a laugh in, shrugged, her tongue firmly in cheek. "You should know. You made it. Tante said it's pleurisy root and is good for those suffering from pneumonia." Louise tilted her head and looked thoughtfully at him. "Do you mean to tell me you don't test your own medicines?"

"No, I do not, thank God," and he made to hand the cup back to her.

"Oh, no you don't!" and shook a finger in his face. "You will drink every drop of that concoction, monsieur. I will not go back out there and confess to my aunt that you did not," and she nodded her head at the cup. "Drink, and quickly, before she comes in here!"

"It could be our little secret then," he wheedled. "Just tell her I did. It will make me ill to swallow this."

"You're already ill. Drink," and folded her arms across her chest and waited.

"Oh, very well," he said petulantly. His eyes never leaving her face, he upended the cup into his mouth, wishing mightily he had a brandy to wash the foul stuff down. "There," he croaked, as he handed the empty cup back to her, "that has probably set my recuperation back by a week or two."

"I can see that _you _are not going to be a very biddable patient. It's a shame really. Except for a few questionable things you said from time to time, you were very easy to care for," a dimple peeping out of one cheek as she tried to hold back a grin.

"Said? What exactly did I say, Louise?" his eyes narrowing suspiciously. His mind and recollections were a veritable tar pit.

"Oh, I cannot repeat it! My ears will burn all over again. And Maria? Why, she was simply flabbergasted!"

It suddenly occurred to him that she was having fun at his expense. The hoyden. "I would think my exposed face would cause the very same reaction."

"Not at all."

"Come, come. It was no doubt the same as the first time you saw it." His eyes watched her warily, but a plaintive note had crept into his voice, and he detested the sound of it. "Wasn't it, Louise?"

She shook her head. "No, not at all,"

"Then what? Surely not admiration," he replied snidely, still with a hint of uncertainty.

"No. Not that either," she said quietly.

"Well, what then?"

"This," and leaned down and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

Startled, his fingers nevertheless flew up and tangled themselves in her hair, pulling her closer as her lips moved with surety across his. He would die for certain now- wrapped in this bliss that he hadn't seen coming. The change in his breathing alerted her to his state and she pulled back, even as he tried to keep her there.

He shrugged, and she was encouraged to see that little sign of normality from him. "I will take any crumb you can give me. Even...even pity, I suppose."

"It isn't pity, you silly man, but that's enough for now," and she smiled, placing a last kiss at the corner of his mouth. "I don't want to scandalize my aunt by ravaging her patient."

"But the patient would enjoy it immensely," he rasped, his voice shaky.

"Maybe that will happen, but _only _after he's had time to recover."

"He is well on the way," and reached for her again, his arms trembling from the effort, and she was appalled to see how weak he was. "I would have another kiss, woman," and he looked at her expectantly.

_ Greedy man!_ She kissed him on the mouth, overwhelmed by the fierce wave of protectiveness which surged through her, and mindful of his illness, placed two fingers against his lips. "You will be having a relapse if this continues!" She sobered quickly, taking in his bloodshot eyes. "Oh, Erik...I-I lo-"

"Ah, I thought it was much too quiet in here," and Sorelli sat up quickly, feeling as though she had been caught in his arms wearing nothing but her shift, as Maria came through the door with a tray balanced in her hands. "I can't leave you two alone for one minute it seems. Pneumonia _can _be contagious, as I have explained to you, Louise."

"Yes, but I am young and healthy; hardly fodder for pneumonia, tante," as comfortable in her own immortality as only a twenty-four year old woman could be.

"I'm not exactly old and doddering," he protested.

"That isn't what you said a few minutes ago."

He had nothing to say to that and simply glared at her.

She got to her feet keeping her head down, not wishing him to see the grin on her face. Maria set the tray on the night table with a clunk. "I think it is well that I give you some nourishment now, then Monsieur Khan is going to help you with any personal needs you may have," to which Erik blanched beneath the mask. The very last thing he could wish for, would be Nadir Khan present while he took care of his bodily functions. He was about to remonstrate with Maria when he realized that his need for the water closet was reaching critical proportions, and reluctantly kept his mouth shut. If he could possibly make it to the water closet with a tiny bit of help from the daroga, he could handle the rest, and his mouth quirked in bitter humor.

Sorelli reached for the tray and Maria shook her head. "No, I will do this. I want you to go home and ready your room for Erik. You can sleep with me until he recovers. He should be well enough to make the trip by tomorrow afternoon."

The masked man looked up at that, still replaying the kiss he had shared with Louise. He would need many more of those, hopefully when he could kiss her back as a lover would, not a man having trouble merely raising his arms. But the realization that he was to stay with the two women was news to him, and not at all welcome. He felt flayed, inside and out, emotionally and physically, and the knowledge that the two ladies had seen him at his worst, sank his ego even further. He stank of sweat, and his mouth felt as if a very large water buffalo had taken up residence there.

As dignified as he could, which wasn't very much, he said stiffly, "No, I respectfully decline your invitation. My place is here. I am grateful for all you both have done for me, but I can manage now."

Maria was about to argue with him, when Louise raised a hand to stop her. She sent a fuming glance Erik's way, the emotional upheavals of the past week, and her own weariness, finally catching up with her. "You cannot _manage_ on your own, you silly man! You can barely raise an arm! What's more...the conditions underground will not aid in your recovery one bit. You're still very ill, and that means you are going home with us whether you like it or not, and that's an end to it!"

Hazel eyes met bloodshot yellow, and for a full minute neither one blinked. Finally, to both their surprise, Erik dropped his eyes from hers. Pulling the last shreds of his dignity about him, he at last nodded. "Very well. I know when I am outnumbered," and turning his head away, proceeded to ignore them, mentally daring Louise to say one more word.

Maria leaned closer to Louise and said softly, "Your bedside manner needs a little work, cara," and glanced thoughtfully at the brooding sick man. "I don't suppose this is a good time to ask him about the mask?"

Louise merely rolled her eyes, observing her love as he mulishly stared at the wall. "Leave the tray, tante. I'll get him to eat a little, then you can send Nadir in," to which Erik seemed to shrink down and hunch in on himself.

From the sound of Louise's grim voice, Maria thought it was highly likely that she would. She picked up the empty cup and nodded with satisfaction. "I knew you would not hesitate to drink this, Erik. It smelled awful, but you of all people would know its benefits better than anyone," and Louise made a noise which sounded very much like a laugh.

Maria glanced from her niece staring at Erik, back to her patient who was keeping his eyes averted from them, and pretending he was alone in the room. "Yes, I'll just...I'll be in the kitchen," and went out the door, already planning a spring wedding. It would be lovely.

* * *

**Cupid is loose in the sickroom, and Maria is already planning a wedding. Nice. Next up- a blast from Sorelli's past.**


	35. Chapter 35

"Will you do it for me?"

"No."

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, Erik lying on his stomach as her hand made slow circles on his back, working the eucalyptus oil into his skin, the massage bringing contentment to them both. She could see the heavy damage from that long ago flogging and felt the cold anger again at his inhumane treatment. It was a blasphemy to inflict such a brutal punishment on another. She felt the slick contour of scar tissue from the scourging of the lash, the divots in his skin where flesh had been gouged out and healed over. The pain must have been incredible, and Maria told her some of the blows no doubt went nearly to the bone. She swallowed, trying to get past the lump in her throat, not realizing her fingers were lightly tracing the old wounds as though removing any residual pain- physical no longer, but what kind of mental scarring was left behind?

She continued her movements, lightly caressing the scarred flesh, and bringing him comfort years too late to do much good, but helpless to stop. She chided him softly, "Don't you _want_ to get better?"

"I do now," he managed to reply, covering a groan of pleasure with a cough. Her gentle fingers kneading his flawed back felt wonderful. Almost too wonderful, and he shifted uncomfortably.

"Then remove it, please?"

"No." He started to cough in earnest, as if his feeble body was helping to press home her point, and with a long-suffering sigh, she tugged his shirt back into place and continued to rub his back until the spate of coughing finally eased. Mourning the loss of her hands, he turned over, and exhausted, settled against the pillows. She handed him a cup of water and he took a few sips and gave it back.

He looked up gratefully at her. "I believe you missed your true calling, my dear. You are proving to be quite the angel of mercy."

She rolled her eyes. Angel again. The world was full of them it seemed. One couldn't move without tripping over a halo. "I wouldn't do this for just anyone, you know. Only those for whom I hold exceeding fondness," she quipped, as she tidied the room, and Erik continued doing what he had always done best- watching her. He never grew weary of the sight. "I can only be glad of it, Louise, for you belong to a select few. Most have given me a wide berth; any healing to be done, was usually performed by me." He looked earnestly at her. "I am grateful. To you...and to Maria."

She nodded as she straightened the bedclothes over him, saying casually, "You may as well get used to it. I find that taking care of you is a challenge...as well as a pleasure."

One corner of his mouth turned up in Erik's version of a smile. "Do not become too content in your duties then, for I have every intention of gaining my feet very soon, and returning this bed to its rightful owner."

He had taken up temporary residence in her home and bed just yesterday, and the move had worn him out to the point that he slept for most of the day. Having him here, in her room- in her bed, gave Louise a warm contentment she hadn't felt in a long time, and willingly gave up her room to him, moving in with her aunt until such time as he was healthy again. Often during that day, she had tiptoed into the room to reassure herself he was still sleeping soundly. She would pause to observe him as he slept, the hands neatly folded on his flat stomach, nearly as white as the sheets he lay upon. His slumber was now deep and healing, but her hands itched to remove the mask he insisted on wearing even as he slept. The urge was so strong to remove it, she had tucked her hands behind her back, clasping them tightly together.

Erik, for his part, felt out of place in the feminine room which smelled enticingly of her perfume and permeated the bed he now lay upon. He was the troll beneath the bridge that had been dragged kicking and screaming into the light of day, and he wished only to return to the cool dark of the cellars. The light was far too bright in this room.

Looking at him now, she could only be glad that he had been too weak physically to stop them from moving him. Maria had been right; the damp cellars were no place for a gravely ill man, and she shuddered to think what would have become of him all alone with no one to care if he lived or died. He was not happy about the move, but Maria was adamant, and her concern superseded Erik's wishes. With the Persian's help, they brought him out of the opera house and bundled him into a carriage in the late afternoon of that first week in December. Erik was tucked against her side for the short trip home, and for the most part, he seemed resigned to the move. It surprised her though, that the one he took out his displeasure on the most wasn't her or Maria, but Nadir Khan, verbally abusing the man until Louise had enough and berated him for it.

"You are alive at this very moment because of Nadir's help! I doubt if I could have found you in time otherwise. Even if you won't acknowledge what you owe the man, at least give him common courtesy!"

Clearly, she was in the right of it and he didn't wish to incur any more of her wrath, for it hurt him every time he caught that look of disappointment in her eyes. Chastised and not liking it, he nevertheless became much more amenable in the daroga's presence. He was as chilly as the lake water outside his door, but unfailingly polite; Louise watched these interchanges between the two men, and knew Erik was exaggerating to the point of hyperbole, but wearily she allowed it. It was better than his previous behavior.

To say that he was a good patient, was not so far from the truth; he was quiet and undemanding, content to follow her everywhere with his eyes as she moved about the room. But he was a very reluctant one, not enjoying the sensation of helplessness or the loss of his privacy.

She stood up and he grabbed for her hand. "Where are you going?"

"To get your lunch. Wouldn't you like something to eat?"

"What I would like, is for you to remain."

"You just rest and-"

"Rest? Only if _you _stay. Anything else is out of the question."

She looked at him with exasperation, then disappeared out the door, only to return with a tray, which she set down on the small console table near the bed. He looked at the large bowl of broth with distaste curling his upper lip. "I'm not hungry. I will have only the tea, Louise. Decent tea- none of that foul drink you and Maria try to foist upon me," and imperiously crossed his arms over his chest.

She put hands on her hips and glared at him. "We have this same argument every time I try and get you to eat! You are the most inflexible man, but at the moment, you are in no position to dictate to anyone, Monsieur St. Clair! We didn't take turns nursing you into the wee hours, just to have you sicken again. And might I remind you, your recovery has only begun? And it would go faster if you removed _that_ thing," and she waggled a finger at the black silk hiding him from her once again.

"Why? So you can feel pity and disgust for what is beneath it?" he rejoined, snorting with ill-humor. He slung an arm across his masked face- and immediately began to cough.

"You have proven my point very admirably, you odious man!" She sighed impatiently, her good intentions going up in a puff of smoke. Angel of mercy, indeed. More like a termagant.

He cringed to think that she was becoming very disenchanted with him for his obstinacy. What if she became so provoked, she gave up on him entirely? Louise had just returned to him, and he would not stand for her deserting him again. He would not.

One yellow eye peeked at her from beneath his arm, and his fear of what he was about to do made him irritable. "I suppose I can't say very much if you _wish_ to see this face of mine. Does this meet with your approval and make you happy, you little harpy?" and untying his mask, slipped it slowly from his face, feeling over-exposed and jumpy as he always did when his death's head was bared. But _she _wished for it, and for her he would do anything. "You own it now, Louise. I give it to you."

"I accept," she told him simply. "It makes me believe in your intelligence and common sense," and sat down, giving him a sweet smile, as she arranged a napkin beneath his chin. She felt victorious, but was determined he wouldn't see the gleam of triumph in her eyes.

He felt the fear dissolving, but his sharp gaze had caught the flash of victory she was intent on hiding. Nevertheless, she had spoken to him affectionately, and it did much to soothe his doubts. He said gruffly, "You needn't hover over me, you know."

"I know," she said calmly, and dipped the spoon into the broth and brought it up to his grim slash of a mouth, pushing it firmly against his lips until he opened them. _Stubborn Man! _She watched as he reluctantly swallowed, and hid a smile as he tried desperately to ignore her.

Eyes averted from her, he said stiffly, "I have already explained to you that I am well able to feed myself, Louise. The very last thing I want you to consider me to be, is an infant incapable of feeding itself."

She hummed impatiently. "You do not _feed_ yourself; you only go through the motions, and play with your soup like a little boy. You won't get better if you don't have some nourishment." Her mouth softened, observing his effort to retain some shreds of dignity while lying flat on his back, and her heart went out to him. "It's not very much- only soup, which _I _made for you. Don't you like it?"

He turned and stared at her. "I shouldn't even dignify that with an answer. You sound just like Maria," he groused, and sighed mournfully as she held the loaded spoon up to his mouth again. He swallowed and looked up at her in suspicion. "_You_ made this for me?"

She nodded and dabbed at his mouth, fending off his hand as it reached for the napkin. "Do you like it?"

"You made it for me. Of course I like it!" he snapped, and neatly plucked the napkin away from her. "Allow me a small bit of dignity, if you please! I'm not completely helpless."

"No, you are not," she agreed. "Merely cantankerous."

He kept watching for signs of her aversion; she was a good actress- she seemed not to care in the least that he didn't have a nose, didn't seem bothered that the bones of his face were misaligned and skull-like; she was patently unconcerned that his eyes disappeared into their cavernous sockets. No. He could not believe her apparent indifference to a visage that could make grown men shake in their boots. Finally he couldn't stand it any longer. "Well? _Look_ at me, Louise. No pity or disgust?" he asked, watching her closely, ready to pounce when she admitted to her fright of him.

"No."

"None whatsoever?" not believing her in the slightest. She had screamed in fright years ago. What had changed? Not him. Oh, no. Not him.

"None," she said reasonably.

"Then what do you see? Come, come. Tell me. I insist. Not a handsome face, by any means," he wheedled. "What do you see?" and he cursed himself for continuing this torture. _He _knew what she looked upon and couldn't expect her to call a sow's ear a silk purse, but what she said wasn't what he had foreseen.

"Love."

He froze at that word. She had been in the midst of delivering a spoonful of soup to his mouth, and his lips inadvertently clamped shut on the spoon, consomme dribbling down his chin. Sorelli removed the napkin from Erik's suddenly nerveless fingers and tenderly wiped it away. "L-Love?" he spluttered.

Louise kept the spoon going, bowl to mouth and back again, observing the flabbergasted look on his face as he absently swallowed soup. She carefully wiped his mouth once more, and becoming impatient, he grabbed her wrist to stop her. "No more," he whispered, staring at her as though she had grown a second head.

They stared at each other as the silence spread, and the proverbial pin could be heard dropping. She had some convincing to do. "I see the face of love, you silly man," and to prove her point, she leaned forward and kissed him.

She heard a sound from deep in his throat, not certain if it was the beginnings of a cough or a sob, but decided it was indeed the latter when she watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest and he turned his head away from her. "Erik?" Concerned, she put her fingers to his jaw. "Are you all right? I'm an unfeeling idiot, and I should know better. You're still mourning Christine. I'll get my aunt and she can-"

"I'm _what_? Are you mad?" and he ruined it with a wheeze and a cough.

"No, I'm not mad," she said disgruntled. "You cried out her name in your delirium. I know how you must feel with her gone. You lost her _and_ your dream of making her diva."

He regarded her silently for a moment, knowing the word love was once again heard by his faulty ears, so perversely he ignored it. If he was sick, that would include all the different parts of him. Yes, his ears were suffering right along with everything else. In all the years of his life, _no one _had loved him. Why should Louise? Friend? Yes, of course, but love him as a woman loves a man? He was really too tired to take much issue with what she was saying, but he wouldn't have her thinking something that was blatantly false.

"Yes, I'm disappointed that she will never again grace the stage. A voice like Christine's doesn't come along very often, and I infused a lot of myself into her training. Even worse, I nearly lost your...your friendship in the process. All the same, I don't know why you think I am mourning her from a name uttered when I was out of my head with fever. Did I mention anyone else in my ramblings?"

"Well...yes. Nadir, the managers...and...and me, among others."

"And yet out of all of those people, yourself included, you choose to believe that it is Christine that I love because I spoke _her_ name?"

"You didn't bother to kidnap anyone else, Erik. Nadir told me you tried to force her into marriage."

"I don't _know _why I kidnapped her," he said in frustration, "I think I wanted to make de Chagny suffer the same way I was suffering. He won you...I did not, and Erik hates to lose. It wasn't love for Christine, unless you want to call it that because of my idee fixe with her voice. I realize it now for what it was- obsession, although I will probably always mourn her absence on the Garnier stage, for hers was a God-given gift and she has squandered it."

"Why did you build that terrible room?"

Once again she took him by surprise, and he said nothing for a moment, shame and regret causing him to drop his eyes from hers. He sighed and thought hard about what he wanted to say. Make her understand the dark places that existed within his own mind.

Finally he looked up at her. "My reason?" He shrugged. "I don't really know. Perhaps I was trying to reflect the human condition as it so often is- beautiful on the outside, corrupt within. Of course, that doesn't include me, you understand. My exterior matches my interior very well, for I am anything but attractive. The Garnier was a good example of what people can be- an allegory, if you will. All that loveliness built for a higher purpose. Art and music- better ideals, but deep within? Rotten. Amoral. It was my need to have opposing views, I suppose. A House of beauty and magnificence concealing a room within it built for misery and death. It was my secret, you see, but sometimes secrets have a way of becoming common knowledge, as in the case of Joseph Buquet, Louise. Or the vicomte and the daroga. It was never meant for the purpose it was originally constructed to do- it was simply a reminder of what the human mind is capable- of what _I _was capable."

"All those years ago, when I...when I found the room...you were so angry-"

"I was angry because I didn't want you in there; in that room of death. Even half finished, it was a terrible place. You were so young and innocent back then. So trusting and kind to me when others were not. My friend. Such a common thing to most- so rare for someone like me. And how did I repay the blessing of your friendship? Even my actions that day fit the premise of the torture room very well. I-I overreacted and nearly did something from which neither one of us would have recovered."

He turned away from her, disgust for the awful things he had done nearly overwhelming in that moment. He could only taint her by continuing to love her, but he could not stop now. His need for her was too strong and far too elemental. "The fact that the room's existence was discovered at all, only proves to me that evil will always reach out for victims. It never rests."

"You are not evil," she said firmly, combing his hair back with her fingers. He closed his eyes at her gentle touch, so sweet, so very coveted by him. "I _know_ you can resist using violence when you wish to do so...you're an intelligent and resourceful man."

He dipped his head slightly. "I will always contrive to be what my Louise desires."

"Erik...did you...did you kill him?" her hand still stroking his hair.

He knew very well who she meant and refused at first to answer her directly. "I was angry," he said simply, opening his eyes. "You were gone and I wanted to hurt _him. _How else to strike back at the man I thought had captured your heart, than to take his precious brother from him, for I knew the boy would come looking for her and then-" He fell silent, once again caught in a web of his own making.

He was tired and she knew she should let him rest, but she had to know about Philippe now that the subject had been broached. They couldn't move forward until then.

His fingers plucked restlessly at the blankets covering him. "I wasn't thinking very clearly. Everything was strange and unfocused; I actually thought it was you with me- I-It wouldn't be the first time I felt that way and became mixed up with whom I was dealing. My grip on reality was very tenuous by then," he glanced up at her, then back to the blankets, "but in some ways it made everything easier to bear."

She knew it was the truth. Sometimes she wondered if he left his mind when things became too difficult- when reality was too harsh to face. She had done the very same thing years ago while sitting in a cell awaiting death, only she had accomplished it in dreams. "But you let him go- and Christine."

He shook his head in agitation. "She wasn't you."

She had to know. It had been there between them since she found him hovering near death two days ago. "Philippe."

His eyes looked back at her without wavering. "I didn't kill him, Louise."

Her shoulders sagged in relief, not realizing how much she had wanted to hear those words from him- knowing for a long time now, that she must accept his perverse nature or walk away forever.

"I found him in the lake, but he was already dead. I was half-way lucid by then and remember thinking that I heard the bell go off. I pulled him out and respectfully laid him on the bank." He looked at her wondering how far he should go with this. Tentatively, "You really should know that I-" C_oward. "_I would have-" _Damn coward. _His words ground to a halt. If de Chagny had been alive when he came across him, he would have killed him. The Siren had its demands, but Louise would never know. This little nugget he would keep to himself.

She looked at him inquiringly, but said nothing, and the words were tripping off his tongue as he hurried on, trying to cover up that little faux pas, "Yes, well as I said he was already dead. I know how much you...loved him."

Louise solemnly shook her head. "It is you that I love," she said quietly.

He stared back at her, afraid to believe. Why should he? He hadn't trusted his senses the first time she uttered that word. "Say it again," he demanded.

"I love you, Erik."

Shocked by her declaration, his hands flew up to cover his face, raw emotion battering at his weakened defenses. His thin chest heaved a number of times, as he fought for control, his limbs shaking with the effort. Louise leaned down, putting her arms around him and laid her head on the pillow beside his. "It certainly took me long enough, didn't it?" she said with a watery grin, her fingers stroking his jaw. She said nothing more, allowing him the time to process those coveted words; allowing the moment to spin out and take hold.

At last he lowered his hands and cautiously cupped the back of her head, pulling her closer... daring to put his nothing lips to her forehead, and was foolishly gratified when she clutched him tighter. What could be better than a kiss? Or to be cherished and held close by another? He wondered how he could allow that tiny seed of hope to grow again after watching it wither and die time and again. "Ten years I waited for you to come home," he whispered. As the recollections pressed in from all sides, his eyes keenly searched her face, seeing what he had always desired, shining there, just for him. Only for Erik.

"I love you, Louise. I have forever, it seems. Why would you agree to marry the comte if you loved me? Why?" He felt a perverse thread of anger at her willfulness which had nearly cost them everything, but successfully stifled it. After all, he was far from blameless.

"There wasn't any engagement," she said quietly.

He stilled at her words. "But that night! I saw you there with him." Foolish girl.

"You were right all along. It wasn't marriage Philippe had in mind, but I was prepared to say no, all the same." She had trouble meeting his eyes, and studied his shirt buttons with interest. "I am partly responsible for all that happened, I think. I tried to hurt you the night of the masquerade and I seem to have succeeded only too well." She bit her lip, her finger inadvertently making its way between the buttons to touch bare skin, searching for those few crisp black hairs on his chest.

Swallowing any lingering bitterness, he decided to take the high road and tilted her head up to meet his eyes. He said slowly and distinctly, "The fault was mine, Louise, and _mine _alone."

"We have been a pair of fools then, haven't we?"

"Mm."

She nuzzled his sunken cheek and Erik hitched in a breath at the contact of her lips to skin which had never felt the loving touch of another. He closed his eyes as he savored the delicious feel of her mouth on his face, wanting to remember this moment always, for it was more valuable to him than any amount of gold- worlds better than the Garnier or his music, and more precious than a diva's song. Helplessly, he could only lie there with tears in his eyes as she busily, and with much pleasure, planted kisses all over his blighted face, even going so far as to put a tiny kiss to his pitiful excuse of a nose. He thought he would surely die from the pleasure of it.

"You may have to remind me any number of times that this isn't my fevered brain at work here- again. It is a little overwhelming at the moment," and ashamed of his tears, put an arm over his eyes and turned from her. At the rate he was going, he may as well have left the blasted mask on his face.

Seeing his withdrawal from her, she felt another rush of tenderness. "Erik?"

He shook his head and sighed. "I will get used to this with time. It would seem that my greatest wish has come true." He stared at her, still skeptical. "I wasn't prepared for that to happen...it so rarely does. But I want only to please you, my dear. Only ever that, and I vow always to try and do so." His look was nearly shy. "Are you? P-Pleased, I mean?"

Happy, she leaned over and put her lips to his forehead. "Ridiculously so," she whispered.

* * *

A week before Christmas, life intruded and tried to quash her happiness, when she received a nasty jolt. The company waited with interest for M. Richard to introduce the new ballet master. Rumors were rife as to whom it might be, but so far, no one knew for certain. Sorelli stood beside Estelle, impatient to be gone after their practice that day. She was eager to reach Erik's house for dinner and a little relaxation, followed by a pleasant evening spent in the arms of the former opera ghost. She was tired.

Erik had returned to his home after spending two weeks recuperating at her apartment. To see him on his feet and healthy again, eased the nagging worry that Louise had carried around with her like an unwieldy weight, and although she was glad to have her own room back, she was sorry to see him go. She had become used to his presence in their home, and had often forgot that it wasn't permanent. Even Erik's impatience and irritability during his convalescence, hadn't bothered her all that much; with a man used to relying on himself for his every need, it was to be expected. His recovery was sweetened and made much more palatable by stolen moments in each other's arms, adding a filip of excitement at not getting caught by Maria. But now that he was no longer ill, she knew they were fast approaching the next stage of their relationship.

Rudy Baucher had been offered the position of ballet master at the prestigious Vienna Opera House, and the lure of more money and a return to his native land, had pushed him to accept. To Louise's delight, he had suggested her for acting ballet mistress until his replacement could be found, and nervously she took over his duties, gaining confidence as each day went by. She found to her surprise, that she enjoyed the position, and with growing satisfaction, directed the corps de ballet and Estelle, who had stepped into Sorelli's shoes as prima ballerina. Every afternoon she would arrive home and spend an hour beating Erik's ear with the demands of her day, and he listened with intense and serious regard as he always had. They moved slowly ahead with rehearsals, but fortunately the ballet they were working on was familiar to everyone, and for the most part, her confidence grew.

Richard appeared at the back of the auditorium, another man beside him as they walked down the aisle toward the assembled ballet troupe, and as he got closer, Sorelli wanted nothing more than to run the other way. She watched stiffly as her former ballet master from the San Carlo was introduced to the company. He climbed to the stage, and a murmur grew from the dancers standing around in small groups.

Estelle leaned over and whispered in her ear, "You look like you've seen a ghost, and as far as I know, no one has sighted _him _for weeks," and she nodded at Vincente Breda, Sorelli's one-time lover. "Acquainted with him?"

She kept her eyes on his progress across the stage, wondering why he had to come here of all places, and answered her shortly, "You could say that."

Vincente made straight for her, a smile tugging at his lips. It widened as he approached her. "Well, Sorelli. I can't say this was much of a surprise, but I am very glad to see you looking so well." He took her hands in his, and reluctantly she permitted it.

"I never thought you would leave the San Carlo, Vincente, let alone Naples."

"I had a disagreement with Bruno Corti. One of many, I might add."

"Oh, yes. I am well aware of your arguments with the music director. Management finally decided to choose a side?"

"You could say that," he smiled disarmingly, "or I might say _you_ are the reason, Louise."

She shook her head gently, remembering his run-ins with management, and Corti in particular. She was always surprised he had lasted as long as he had.

She stepped back, putting some much needed distance between them. Based on Erik's prior habits in the Garnier, she was fairly certain he was a witness to this meeting onstage. At one time, he had even contemplated killing Vincente; she was quite certain he recognized him and was at this moment speculating furiously how to handle this new threat. Erik was if anything, a creature of observation; he would study this interloper, and plan his movements accordingly.

Breda was still smiling at her, no doubt thinking she would be easy to coerce into a relationship again. He was an attractive man, slender as the dancer he once was, with brown hair worn long and a sharp pair of brown eyes, which had an uncomfortable habit of searching for weakness in others, whether it be dancer or a rival for a woman. Louise considered him to be trouble and would keep her distance as much as possible from him. A certain amount of time would have to be spent together; as prima ballerina, she would inevitably be in contact often with the ballet master, but anything else would be out of the question. Aside from her repulsion for Breda, Erik would see to that.

"I have no interest in any relationship outside of a professional one. You would do well to keep that in mind."

One eyebrow flew up in surprise as he studied this mature version of the girl ambitious enough to warm his bed for a favor returned. Apparently no more. "Yes, why should you? You have already reached the top here." His smile became predatory. "The only direction now is downward. Care to see how it's done?"

She shook her head and one corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk. "No more than you would care to find yourself hanging from the rigging above your head."

He tilted his head at this nonsense, his amusement obvious. "You seem quite certain of that, cara."

"Oh, I am. Try it and see for yourself. I work hard to hold my position as premier dancer. I will not allow you or anyone else to jeopardize that, Vincente."

He stepped back and turned away as if dismissing her, and said over his shoulder, "We shall see then, won't we?" He passed among the other dancers, pausing to speak with the willowy Marthe, whose face was wreathed in smiles of welcome.

Estelle sidled up to her friend and said in a low voice, "Is he trying to resurrect the opera ghost all by himself? If he spends any more time with the Phantom's lady, he will find himself delivered back to Naples- one piece at a time." At Sorelli's start of surprise, she grinned. "What do you take me for, Louise? A complete dunce? I'll have you know, I figured out the ghost's identity a long time ago." She glanced casually around when Marthe giggled and stared pointedly at Louise. "Your secret is safe with me," she replied succinctly, knowing she owed Erik her very life, and in an indirect way, her budding relationship with Gilberte Caron.

"See that you don't, Taillier," she warned. "All is quiet for now, but that could change very quickly." As they filed off the stage, Sorelli glanced furtively around, wondering how much of that interchange Erik had been privy to.

She stepped into her dressing room and shut the door behind her and sighed. It was all well and good to be forthright and confident around Breda, but she had no wish to see Erik become a menace to the theatre and himself once again. She had nearly lost him and had no wish to repeat it. As if her thoughts had invoked him, the gas lights in her room dimmed to nearly nothing, and sinuous arms were around her, pulling her into a snug embrace. She felt cool lips on her neck and shivered in anticipation as they traveled up to the tender skin behind her ear and placed a moist kiss there.

Louise answered him in kind, turning around in his arms. She tugged his head down and pressed her mouth to his, eager for its firm touch and the taste of him on her tongue. They stood close together, breastbone to breastbone, hip to hip, while his long hands moved down her flanks and grasped her slender waist, pulling her tighter to him. Mouths moving in more discovery, their breathing ratcheted up, while fingers explored a tantalizing new landscape. Friends to lovers- one and the same. Once their passion was at last consummated, the circle would be complete, their new lives begun.

They each played a delicious game, seeing how far they could go before giving in to their desires. A little trepidation added to the mix, and the longing for completion grew closer every time they were together. His illness had put a damper on anything more than stolen kisses and small touches, but she could feel his growing ardor and sense his impatience to get much closer.

The need for air and a slight cough from Erik brought them up from their near total suspension from the world. Almost completely recovered from pneumonia, he would still have coughing spells, but they were becoming less as the glorious days of being together again, drew on. He held her at arms length and his fingers clutched possessively at her shoulders as he stared down at her.

"Master Breda has traveled quite the distance to become a corpse." He said it as a matter of fact with no compunction to mince words, which made it all the more chilling. "You are mine and I will brook no interference from him or anyone else. Let him find some other rat. This one is taken and Erik does not share."

She decided to be diplomatic with her irascible man, for he wasn't always the intellectual she knew him to be. His emotional balance could at times, teeter over into childish conduct, and although he had calmed down under her influence, he would probably always be that way. Events had shaped him, and try though he might, overcoming his possessive nature and unruly temper would always require a firm and loving touch. Erik's child-like behavior was capable of murder; Louise knew it, and although she often cringed at the reality of her circumstances, she could no more stop loving him than the earth could stop spinning on its axis.

She put a hand to his jaw, and he leaned into it, closing his eyes, still slightly in disbelief that Louise did indeed love him. "You are to leave him alone, Erik. He means absolutely nothing to me, and can't endanger my position in the company. I want you to concentrate on what you do best."

"And what would that be?" he asked snidely. "You no longer allow me to _haunt_. What is left?"

"Keeping me happy, you silly man," and she leaned up and kissed him again. When he would have deepened it, she pulled away. "Oh, no you don't! You promised to feed me. Remember?"

He reluctantly stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. "I thought that was what I was doing." He shook his head in mock exasperation. "Your appetite has been the bane of my existence," and he waved a thin hand at her. "Go change and I will consider your request."

She laughed as she slipped behind the screen. "There's hope for me, after all."

Louise contemplated Breda's reappearance in her life, mostly confident that Erik wouldn't harm the man, but she could never be certain. His harsh words now led her to wonder if he was indeed a reformed opera ghost, or was it merely pretense? Would he decide to renew his search for a diva anytime soon? By tacit agreement, neither of them had mentioned Christine again, but Erik was recovered now. She wanted his assurances that his quest for a soprano would not lead him once more into a world of his own making. His recent actions still left her with some unease, and she paused as she chose her words, struggling to sound casual.

"Are you very disappointed you no longer have a soprano to train?"

There was silence for a full minute, and she cursed herself for bringing it up. "Erik?"

He wasn't at all surprised that she mentioned it again; he only wondered why it had taken this long, but it was a subject he wished to hear no more about. "Are you afraid I might endeavor to try again? I assure you I will not." He took a few steps toward the screen and halted. She would not appreciate him back there with her, although _he_ would find it most entertaining. "Louise? You _do _believe me, don't you?"

"Yes," thankful that he had taken it so well.

He was also relieved as he patted the right breast pocket of his coat. "It wasn't meant to be, I suppose, but I have the prima ballerina and she is all I will ever need."

Content, she couldn't help teasing him a little. "Even with Carlotta back as diva?"

He chuckled darkly. "Yes. I certainly have no..." He stared as her gauze skirt landed on top of the screen and swallowed hard, his skinny Adam's apple bobbing up and down as her bodice joined it. "Merde..." he whispered, his devious mind conjuring up a naked Louise.

"You could always give Carlotta lessons, you know," she said, feeling more at ease with the subject, and teasing him as she now did most days. He pretended to be offended, and she in turn pretended not to care, and they both loved it. He was starved for affection, and after her first try at teasing had left him dumbfounded, he quickly caught on to the joys of affectionate repartee, and began to enjoy it. He was quite good at it himself, she found, but for now he remained silent. She raised her voice, "You didn't fall asleep out there, did you?"

"No, I did not." _I was__ quite busily picturing some wonderful delights involving you,_ _me__ and a bed._ He glanced thoughtfully at the sofa and amended that. _It would do. _"I was thinking of the possibilities of teaching Carlotta, as you so kindly suggested," he said gravely, trying to scrub from his mind, the image of long slender legs tangled with his. "It has merit, you know. Her voice is good. It is only her other attributes that get in the way of it. I will have to give it some thought," and he was amused when she appeared around the screen, a frown creasing her brow.

She padded over to him barefoot and pulled him unresisting into her arms. "There will _not_ be any teaching if I have my say, Erik, especially through walls! Your angel days are over, right along with that surly ghost!"

"Hoist with your own petard, my dear?" and placed a kiss on her temple, his lips lingering there. _Sweet torture._

"Hoist with my own..." Startled, she looked up at him, his eyes gleaming with mischief, and realized he had very neatly turned the tables on her. "Oh, very well! Yes, it looks like I have been. You're admirably catching on to when I am teasing you. Very soon, I won't be getting any pleasure from it at all," she sulked.

He clicked his tongue in sympathy. "I hope that isn't the case. Above all, I want you to have pleasure," he whispered, and put two fingers to her chin, tipping it up to his gaze. "May I also say in my defense, that I was never surly?"

"You may, but I beg to differ. All the same, we must keep you occupied with other endeavors." She pursed her lips and smirked at him. "Those of a more earthy kind."

"That is most intriguing. I am listening."

She shook her head and slid her hands beneath his coat, and felt him shiver, thrilled as always at his reaction every time she put her arms around him. She intended to smother him in affection until the lonely years were only a faded memory. "I prefer to show you. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all."

She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips lightly over his, teasing him with her mouth, but he was having none of it. He bent down and cradled the back of her head in one large hand as his mouth forcefully claimed hers. With a sigh, she gave herself up to his kiss, spending the next few minutes in a drugged haze, as his mouth slanted across hers, his hands pressing into her back- pressing her closer to his lean frame. At last the need for air roused her, and reluctantly she stepped away from him. She turned around presenting her back to him. "Would you kindly button me?"

He took a couple of much needed breaths, his excitement slowly ebbing. Where she was concerned, it was becoming harder to stop. "With utmost pleasure," he said hoarsely, and did so, feeling disappointment every time more of her creamy flesh was hidden from his view. Once he was done, he placed a soft kiss on her nape and gave her a little push toward the screen. "Shoes. Can't walk barefoot through the cellars. Unless you would like me to carry you," he added hopefully.

"And have you exhausted before we get to your front door?"

He snorted in disgust. "Exhausted? Don't be ridiculous, Louise! You hardly weigh more than you did at fourteen. I could manage very well," he threw at her.

"Well, of course you could," she crooned, soothing ruffled male feathers, "but I'm considerably taller than I was, and you would only find it awkward going down all those stairs."

While she put on shoes and fixed her hair, he leaned against the door, and for the tenth time, patted his right breast pocket where the small jewelers box nestled close to his heart. Dinner was waiting for them below, as well as champagne. He had made certain his home looked properly festive for the occasion, and everything now awaited his queen of the underground, for tonight he would ask her to be his wife.

His hand lingered there, and he felt a moment's disquiet at this new wrinkle in the fabric of his life. He tested his emotional state at that point in time, and felt contentment welling up at the mere thought of Louise giving herself to him, but mixed in with his pleasure, was the ache of possible rejection. Joining that small shred of unease, and trying to gain more ground, was Vincente Breda's presence in his opera house. Louise loved _him_\- she told him so several times a day, but human nature being what it was, he wouldn't allow her to discover she had been mistaken. She belonged to Erik now, and he would do whatever it took to have it remain so. His dilemma at the moment, was his hasty vow to desist from mayhem. He would honor that- as long as the Italian behaved as well. But one toe out of line and- Assassination was out of the question, although it would have been lovely to string him up in the tackle above the stage, and let him dangle until found by one of the flymen.

Fortunately there were other methods at his disposal, and his imagination had always provided the means to an end. It would again.

* * *

**Erik is strategizing...I'd say he's made a full recovery, so let the games begin ;) Guess the Garnier will have to advertise for a new ghost since Louise is making him hang up his sheet. Next up- Four little words and everyone's goose is cooked :)**


	36. Chapter 36

As they walked to his home, he seemed to become a trifle more formal with her, a touch more reserved, and Louise wondered at it. She cut her eyes up at him in approval as the chill in the cellars grew. He was warmly dressed in a wool frock coat and trousers, crimson vest and black silk cravat meticulously tied. It was good to have him well again and looking so healthy, and she told him so.

His laugh was merely a bark as he glanced down at her and answered, "To say I am well again is one thing, Louise. To claim that I look healthy is completely disingenuous."

She slipped an arm through his, and hugged it close to her side. "You are on your feet again, and I can only be glad of it!"

He leaned down, putting his lips to her ear. "Much better arrangement, I think. It's difficult to impress a lady while lying helpless in bed," he flicked a hand at his masked face, "and I was already at a disadvantage."

Louise stared up at him, his eyes a bright glow in the surrounding darkness. "Oh, I never considered you to be helpless," she chuckled. "Not with that acerbic tongue of yours. You managed to use that to great effect!"

"If I was unkind to either you or Maria, I can only hope you have both forgiven me for it. I am hardly used to the company of women," he said gruffly, not looking at her.

She stopped and turned to him, noting his stiff demeanor. "You weren't unkind, Erik. You were sick, and I'm sure you must have felt very ill-used at times. Of course it made you a little irritable!" She smiled up at his faceless visage in the dim light, preferring his naked face to the blank impersonal silk which she was starting to heartily resent.

He pulled her close, always more at peace with her in his arms. Touching and being touched was curiously liberating to his senses, fulfilling a powerful hunger which had never been appeased until now. "Not ill-used, Louise. Never that. Only thankful that you would bother at all," and tilting her chin up, proceeded to show his gratitude in the most satisfying way he knew how.

He finally released her, but kept her close to his side as they continued on. She put a hand up to her throbbing mouth which had just been thoroughly kissed, as though trying to keep her tethered to him by the touch of his lips alone. She kept up a bright stream of chatter, wondering all the while what was going on behind those yellow eyes. As they got closer to his home, Erik said very little, only responding to her with an occasional curt word until they entered the house.

"Oh, it's lovely!" She stood in the small foyer and looked around her at the abundance of red, white, and pink poinsettia plants sitting on nearly every available surface. There must be a dearth of poinsettias in the city by now, she thought with amusement; they were all in the fifth cellar. Fresh pine swags decorated the mantel and door lintels, and she grinned to herself; obviously he had felt an uncontrollable urge to decorate. If there had been windows in his home, she would have been fooled into thinking the view was one of a cold Parisian street in the latter part of December. He watched her reaction to his attempt at brightening his rooms just for her.

She sniffed appreciatively at the rich aroma of cooked meat and vegetables. "You've been busy, I see."

"All for you," he murmured as he reached for her again, making her wonder if she was simply imagining his mood.

Willingly she went into his arms...her warm haven, and snorted at the notion of a warm Erik. Loving he may be, but his spidery hands would remain cold to the touch until _she _did the warming. Often Louise took them in hers, chafing them until they lost their chill. He would sit perfectly still while she energetically rubbed his hands, mystified as to her purpose, but enjoying it all the same.

She reached up and untied the mask, gently slipping it from his face, and as always, he stiffened at the contact, nervous at his exposure to her eyes. Intellectually, he well knew she was used to seeing his death's head and had accepted it, but the part of him which had once been treated worse than any animal, the part which had gone deep into his psyche to hide and cower in fear of discovery, tried once again to assert itself. He lowered his head and took her mouth in a fierce kiss, his love and anxiety spurring him on.

It was an assault on her senses, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, clinging to him as his teeth nipped at the plump flesh of her lower lip, his tongue soothing it at the same time. She was held in his iron hold with no thoughts of release, a tiny moan slipping from her as the heat pooled in her lower belly, and her thoughts spiraled down to release of a different kind. Her hand rose to the back of his neck and curled there, her fingers running through the soft hair at his nape. Erik shuddered with pleasure, his own hands far from idle as they skimmed her sides, lingering on the tempting swell of her breasts. In his excitement, his breathing became a heavy rasping in her ear, and he tore his mouth from hers when he began to cough, rousing her from the sweet bliss in which they had been cocooned. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he grasped her hands and brought them to his chest, cradling them gently.

He eyed the slight puffiness of her lip with concern. "Did I hurt you?"

Louise shook her head and raised a hand to his deformed cheek, anxiously observing him. It was an altogether different kiss; one holding an edge of desperation to it that seemed out of place, his arms that much tighter around her. "Is anything wrong?"

He turned his head and placed a kiss to her palm. "Only my misplaced ardor. Forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," she replied, carefully searching his face. "Are you sure you're all right?" putting the back of her hand to his forehead.

"Of course I am. An occasional cough does not signify a relapse, Louise. There is nothing wrong, I assure you. I have you, and I am no longer lying useless in bed drinking foul _things,_" to which she had to smile. "What more do I require?" He gave each of her fingers a heartfelt kiss. "Did I mention...I have you?"

"Yes, you did. Twice as I recall. Can I help you in the kitchen?"

"No," and turned away from her. "Go warm yourself by the fire," he said over his shoulder as he left the room.

Instead, she trailed after him, keeping him company as he dished up the beef medallions over noodles. Dinner was a mostly quiet affair, as she did most of the talking, his eyes rarely leaving her face. She was used to this steady regard of his, but eventually she started to feel the beginnings of her own unease, and was determined to find out the cause. They went to the parlor with their coffee, and sat side by side while the fire cast its orange glow on the walls and floor. A bucket with champagne and two flutes sat on one of the tables flanking the sofa, and slowly she looked around, her eyes once again taking in the almost festive atmosphere, but this time, viewing it from a different perspective. The cause for his anxiety suddenly clicked into place. At least she hoped she was correct in her assumptions. She felt foolish now for her negativity; she had been so certain he was wining and dining her only to follow it with a confession of murder and mayhem. Louise sighed in relief and sat patiently waiting.

He quirked an eyebrow at her radiant smile, gathering his courage around him as he would gather the folds of his cloak, pushing away the very thought of her refusing him; it wasn't wise to keep his mind in such a dark place- bad things happened there. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to consign himself to Heaven or Hell. He set his coffee cup down and took her hand in his, gently rubbing her fingers with his thumb and said quietly, "I know very well that I am hardly what you had in mind to love and honor the rest of your days; I would gladly give you a normal face- a normal _man _instead of what I can offer you.

"If it were in my power," his thumb was drawing circles on the sensitive skin of her palm, "I would give you someone you deserve; that is not possible, I'm afraid, but...I need you. I _love_ you." He had to finish this before his nerve and dignity ran out, and he ended up on the floor at her feet, begging and whimpering like a fawning cur. Desperately he forced the rest of his pitiful declaration out of his dead mouth, the capering voice in his head expecting her to laugh at him for daring to presume she would want to mate with someone like him. But he knew differently... didn't he?

He rushed on, before the panic dried up his resolve. "What I _can _give you, is all of my love and devotion. I will care for you as no one else ever could, and love you until breath leaves my body." A small tremor had started in the hand holding hers and he willed it away and grabbed for his prize. "Will you marry me? I will always endeavor to make you happy. You will see, Louise. You will see."

So here it was. His nervousness, the attention to detail- his handsome suit...the flowers and Champagne. Having no prior warning that he was about to propose, Sorelli cast a rueful glance down at her utilitarian brown skirt and white blouse, feeling much like the drab peahen to the peacock's much showier plumage. Men were no different regardless, whether they owned an attractive face or not. Sometimes they were absolutely oblivious, but she never hesitated, knowing how anxious he was for her answer. She could see the hope and fear jockeying for position in those amber eyes which could be so expressive, and knew she only wanted his happiness- he'd had so very little of it.

"I would be honored to have you as my husband," squeezing his hand and leaning toward him, "there _is_ no one else for me," and she implored him with her eyes to accept the truth of her words. "Yes."

He released a pent up breath and gathered her close, fervently pressing her head against his shoulder and closing his eyes. He savored the significance of her answer- that is, until his contrary nature decided it needed more proof. Feeling the fool, he nevertheless repeated it- just to make certain his ears hadn't played him false. He pulled away from her and carefully studied her face. "You will be Erik's..." he impatiently shook his head, "_my_ wife forever, Louise?" Feeling his anxiety climbing, he helplessly added, "won't you?"

She knew him well enough by now to realize how cynical he could sometimes be. And why not? Trust didn't come easily to him- but suspicion did, which was no doubt what had kept him alive over the years. Happy was a state with which he wasn't well acquainted. She put a hand on either side of his face, her thumbs lightly brushing the corners of his mouth, and looked deep into eyes reflecting fear _and_ a monumental hope.

She kissed him on the forehead. "Yes," and his eyes clamped shut.

"Yes." Her lips traveled to a twisted cheekbone and placed a kiss there, the other cheek soon receiving the same treatment. "Yes."

His poor excuse for a nose was next as she put her lips there, feeling the puffs of air from his soft exhalations, and finally she placed a lingering kiss to his mouth. "Yes."

His arms pulled her tightly to him and he rested his cheek against hers. "Thank you," he whispered, so low, it nearly passed by her unnoticed, but she heard and was nearly devastated.

How many men would thank a lady for accepting his proposal of marriage? How many men would be as grateful for the chance to become a husband; to have someone to hold on to when life deals its hard knocks, or when the nightmares come in the small hours of morning? She never considered a marriage proposal as something to be grateful for, but this _was _Erik and nothing was ever simple or normal in his world. Everything which affected him grew to monstrous proportions- good _or_ bad. His humble gratitude made her utterly sad.

Erik was such an anomaly in his strange mixture of arrogance and reserve, unfeeling cruelty and a very real compassion which for the most part, remained hidden away. He was highly intelligent, and in Sorelli's opinion, capable of great things. But he was also capable of behavior bordering on the childish, sometimes losing himself in a persona where he felt safer. Here was a unique man who encompassed so much of the good and bad inherent in every living soul. She would never completely understand him or the harsh life which led to his singular nature, but she knew deep in her bones, that he did indeed love her. She would do her very best to make him happy.

He knew he would remember Louise's acceptance clearly for the rest of his days; it was a pure and shining moment in a life uncluttered with such things. He took her hand in his. "Do you believe in magic, Louise?"

"I believe in you," she replied softly. "I believe in Erik."

"Will this do? I borrowed one of yours for the correct size," and her mouth dropped open as he raised her left hand up, and Louise stared numbly at the large emerald in a setting of gold, snug on her ring finger as though it had always been there. "It was specially made for you to my specifications. One of the gem stones I brought with me out of Persia." His gaze lost focus for just a second as he remembered the little sultana's last moments of life, her eyes fixed on him in an unblinking stare filled with horror at his treachery. But he shoved such thoughts away- there was no room for those in his life now.

His eyes cleared as he regarded her with a fierce light in them. "I will give you diamonds as well, if you would like them. All that I have is yours. _You _honor me." He felt vindicated by her acceptance; he felt a stab of pure happiness pierce his heart...such a quicksilver feeling, and ephemeral at best, but he would enjoy it while it lasted. He wanted to weep for joy, and run into the streets proclaiming Erik to be loved. He would show them all when he walked down the street with his wife on his arm. His _wife_, by God!

She glanced from his warm eyes to her lovely ring, once again astounded by his sleight of hand. "It's beautiful! But how-?"

"A bit of legerdemain for my lady fair." He fingered the ring, watching as the stone caught the flickering light from the fireplace, making it a fluid, rippling green. "For my Louise."

He shivered when she put her lips tantalizingly close to his ear and whispered, "Now you may conjure us a happy ever after."

* * *

Christmas Day found Maria doing what she loved to do best. Feeding a houseful. She had arisen early to begin her preparations, and her niece had stumbled out to the kitchen by eight to be her sous chef after two cups of coffee and a sticky bun. Besides her and Louise, there was Erik, Nadir Khan, Estelle Taillier and her escort, Gilberte Caron. Maria was cooking a goose for their dinner, plus baked cod in a cream sauce, wild mushroom and asparagus risotto, a host of appetizers and vegetable side dishes, salads, and a number of dolce, including her famous rum baba. No one would go hungry at her table. Louise had made zabaglione, it being Erik's personal favorite, and Maria smiled to see how carefully she had prepared it.

"For you know how much he loves yours, tante. I must not fall below your standards. I would never live it down otherwise," she laughed.

"As long as you are the one making it for him, he could not care less what it tastes like, cara. Erik is a happy man these days and food is not his first priority when he is with you."

"It never is; there's very little that moves his appetite, and if he has a special dish he enjoys, I'll make certain he gets it. I even put some of it aside for him to take home." She removed her apron and hung it on a peg, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "Is that raspberry tart for a certain Persian gentleman, by any chance?" and laughed to see the roses blooming in her aunt's cheeks.

"Whatever do you mean? I have a whole dinner prepared!"

She took Maria's arm and gave it a squeeze. "I know you do. I'm only teasing you," and her aunt looked at her sharply, before turning back to the sink, "but he does seem uncommonly interested in your opinion on everything, and you, dear, seem to find things more amusing in his company."

She ignored this as she washed the mushrooms and asparagus stalks. "Go get ready before Erik shows up on our doorstep. He looks at me as if any minute I will drag him off to the kitchen and make him eat. As though _I _could accomplish that on my own! You, now...could manage it. If you told him to walk barefoot on a bed of hot coals, he would merely ask you how long you wished him to do it!"

Louise snorted at this. "I would like to meet the person who can make Erik do what he doesn't want to do, but it certainly wouldn't be me!"

"Then you have your head in the clouds, for you are the sun and moon to him. How he is going to manage another month until the wedding, I do not know."

Sorelli wondered the same thing. Maria had suggested an April wedding, and despite Erik's silence on the subject, she found herself deciding upon a quiet ceremony in February. Maria was making a trip to Naples in a week's time to inspect her home after nearly a year's absence, but her main reason for going was to bring her wedding gown back to Paris for her niece to wear. It would need some alterations, but it was a beautiful gown, and at one time she had hoped to be blessed with a daughter to someday wear it. And in a way she had, for Louise was as dear to her as any child of her own could be.

She hurried through her toilette, then went to the wardrobe in her room and removed the small jeweler's box wrapped in silver paper. It was her Christmas gift to Erik and she was anxious at his acceptance of it; she had agonized over her choice of present since she bought it a week ago. Hearing the doorbell, she slipped the box into a pocket of her blue skirt and left the room.

He looked up when Louise entered the hallway, his eyes always seeking her out whether it was an empty room or one filled with people. He was wearing his prosthetic nose, with the addition of a neat mustache, and Maria was surprised at the incongruous sight, having only ever seen him noseless. The prosthetic was long and thin, just like the rest of the man, but having a transparency to it that served only to highlight the disturbing reality of Erik's ruined face. Maria glanced between the two of them, and wisely retreated back to her kitchen.

Louise took the opportunity to indulge a proper hello before the others arrived. Her fingers curled around the wrapped box as she went into his arms, and he bent to nuzzle her cheek before capturing her mouth in a hungry kiss.

"Wait until you see the dessert I made for you," she whispered, his lips now on her neck and feeling all too wonderful.

"Mm. Louise is my dessert, and an utterly delightful one. Sugar is bitter compared to the sweet taste of her skin. Would she care to be the main course as well?"

"I think that can be arranged," and her hand made a slow circuit down his chest, fingertips lightly grazing his chest, conjuring up delights of which he had only ever dreamed.

Erik sucked in a harsh breath at the desire bubbling through his veins as he stood there in the latter part of the afternoon, in the middle of the front hall on Christmas Day. He wondered how one year could be so vastly different from the last, or even from a few weeks ago when he was hurt and sick, lying in his coffin and ready to die. But he was liking her caresses very well- almost too well, if the discomfort of a certain part of his anatomy was any indication.

His sigh was ragged, as he put a hand over hers and held it captive against his pounding heart. "Stop what you are doing, naughty girl, before I embarrass myself beyond redemption and Maria bars the door to me forever!"

She leaned up and whispered in his ear, and a shudder went through him at the contact. "It wouldn't matter to me. I would simply find another way to be with you," her eyes dark and sultry in the gray light of the December afternoon.

Her mouth was on his ear, a part of him he had never before considered overly sensitive, but he found out differently as her tongue traced the contour of it, before drawing his earlobe into her mouth and sucking gently. It felt marvelous and a slight groan escaped his lips; goaded beyond endurance, he snapped weakly at her, "Stop that!" hoping she would, praying she didn't.

"No," she said pleasantly. "_You_ are my pas de deux. Always."

He stared down at her with smoldering eyes. "And would you like it here at this very moment then? Erik can accommodate you very well. He would like nothing better," and lowered his head again, the promise in her hazel eyes making him forget everything else. Her sweet mouth opened beneath his and welcomed his tongue inside where it collided with hers- warm, moist, and delicious.

Her arms wrapped around his narrow waist, as she pressed herself closer to him, and his hands came up to bury themselves in her neat chignon, dislodging several pins. A long brown lock of hair escaped, and now lay curled around his wrist as he plundered her mouth. The doorbell startled them both and she stepped back quickly, a hand going to her flushed cheek before raising it to her mussed hair. "My pins!" she squeaked.

He got down on his hands and knees and began searching for the runaways, and Louise giggled at the sight of her lanky fiance crawling along the floor. He welcomed the diversion as he handed them over to her, fighting to collect himself and willing his blood to cool. She would kill him at this rate, he was very certain of it. He would die from pure lust and happiness in one fell swoop.

Sorelli rapidly pinned her hair, took a deep breath and opened the door. Estelle stood there smirking, with Gilberte Caron beside her. The man Erik called the Shade, had an angular face and shrewd brown eyes, and it was obvious for anyone who cared to see, he was deeply enamored with the young dancer.

Erik nodded at the arrivals, and gave Louise one more intense glance before moving away and heading for the parlor. Estelle, startled by his sinister appearance, stared after him until Louise pointedly cleared her throat. With a shiver, she hastily dropped her eyes and leaned closer to Gilberte. "I'll be with you in a moment, cherie," and he took the hint and joined the other man. She turned to her friend who was busy hanging their coats on the hall tree. "Indulging yourself a little, Sorelli?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Aside from your uh...very red mouth, your hair is undone, it's written all over your face, and it was most definitely in _his _eyes. I'm surprised you didn't burst into flame the way he was staring at you. Why don't you put him out of his misery?"

She sniffed. "How do you know I have not already done so?"

She rolled her eyes. "One can tell," and she nodded in the direction of the parlor where Erik stood, surreptitiously mopping at his brow with a white handkerchief. "It's pleasant in here, but hardly _that _warm." She looked thoughtfully at the one-time Phantom, then turned to her friend. "He's quite tall, isn't he? His legs seem to go on forever," and she chuckled. "You know what they say about tall men and what they have-"

"Stop right there, Taillier! Keep your eyes off of his legs and any other part of him that needn't concern you."

Estelle laughed. "Territorial little rat, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am, and don't you forget it." Louise turned back to the door to admit Nadir Khan, who had just appeared on their doorstep holding a posy of carnations clutched in one brown hand, and tissue wrapped sugared almonds in the other.

"Joyeux Noel, Nadir!" as the Persian stepped into the warm foyer bringing a swirl of cold air with him.

"Yes, Louise. The very same to you, I am sure," he said cautiously, not at all familiar with this European custom. His glance fell on the hall table, dressed in a white velvet runner and an enormous poinsettia in a crystal planter. He gestured to the bright crimson plant. "That is indeed a very large specimen. Why, it is practically a tree!"

Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "It was delivered yesterday to my aunt. From Erik. He searched all over Paris for it."

Nadir looked taken aback at this news and clutched his posy of red and white carnations tighter. "Very thoughtful of him, wasn't it?" He dejectedly eyed his little bouquet. "Erik's flowers would be gaudy," he muttered to himself, "just look at that theatre of his."

She chuckled, silently agreeing with him, and took his arm, aiming him in the direction of Maria. "Go on. She's in the kitchen." She nodded at the flowers. "She'll love them, but I must warn you- she may put you to work," and laughed outright when he gave her a look of fright. She turned back to Estelle. "And I'll thank _you_ to keep your opinions on my love life, or lack thereof, to yourself, Taillier," she said archly, just before they joined the men.

"Oh, I think I can manage that," she replied sotto voce. "I'll be far too busy with my own to worry overlong about yours." Privately she thought Sorelli was playing with fire, and just might get singed. The former opera ghost was looking far too haunted of late, and if Louise trusted to his restraint, Estelle did not.

* * *

"And what is this delightful dish?" Nadir eyed the zabaglione with interest, his mouth already watering, and Erik's hackles rose.

"That_, _daroga, was made by Louise because she knows it is _Erik's_ favorite."

Estelle leaned over and whispered to her friend, "There is another Erik?" She glanced around for the latecomer not yet seated at the table.

Louise only smiled and looked indulgently at her fiance. "No, only one."

Taillier nodded, slightly confused, and watched from the corner of her eye as the former opera ghost prepared to keep the Persian fellow out of his dessert. She wondered if men had ever fought over ownership of custard before, and settled back, thinking she was about to find out. It was probably a good thing there _was_ only one of Erik, she mused- the world could not possibly survive two. She looked at Gilberte and rolled her eyes, surprised and pleased when he gave her a slight wink in return.

"Yes, I made it because he's fond of it, but I'm sure he won't mind if we all have some, Nadir. Isn't that _so_, Erik?"

Everyone looked inquiringly at him, Louise especially, wanted to divert him from his penchant for possessiveness. Apparently, it wasn't only herself, but anything associated with her, even food, therefore she was greatly relieved when he gave her a small nod.

"Of course, Louise. _My _zabaglione for everyone," he said sullenly, and Nadir questioned now more than ever what the prima ballerina saw in Abu-Uzraeel which produced such devotion, for he could see nothing. In fact, the exact opposite, for as they ate their desserts, Erik watched each one of them, begrudging every bite they took. The Persian made certain to enjoy every morsel of his.

While they ate, the talk came round to the new ballet master, and with a weather eye on Erik, whose mouth had begun to grimly tighten, Louise tried to deflect it by talking about something else. The past week had been fairly tame; at least it was when working with someone like Breda. But the one thing that gave her pause, was the extra hour that he insisted they stay for, when their day should have ended. This had caused some acid comments from Erik, for it lessened _his _time with Louise, and that would never do.

Estelle took a sip of her wine and looked down the table at Maria. "I thought Rudy Baucher was a martinet, but Breda is impossible, especially with this production of Swan Lake. Most of the corps de ballet end up in tears by the end of the day, and just recently he tore into Louise over her interpretation of Odette." She snorted in disgust, not noticing that the room was growing almost too quiet. "He wanted her performance to equal Marie Taglioni's. He had the nerve to say she looked like nothing more than a chicken chasing its head, but our Louise isn't one of the new rats; she refused to be intimidated by him even when he insisted on continuing the discussion in his office." It suddenly occurred to her how still the room had become, and she glanced around until her eyes alighted on Erik, and she blanched. "Well, of course she refused to go...she...r-refused-" With a little thrill of fear, she lowered her eyes to her plate and took another bite of her custard, then hurriedly set down her spoon. _Erik's_ dessert, she thought glumly, cursing her big mouth.

Louise chanced a look at him, and he stared back at her, the angry glitter of his eyes not boding well for their new ballet master. As though right on cue, his voice was tickling her ear. "_Make an excuse to go to the kitchen_. _Now_."

Hearing that clipped tone, she climbed to her feet, her annoyed glance falling on Estelle, who wisely dropped her eyes. "I'll just get us another bottle of wine and some fresh glasses," and then she looked at her inscrutable man. "Erik, will you help me?" and not waiting for an answer, went to the kitchen. She turned to him when he entered behind her, keeping her voice down. "Must we discuss this now?"

"Yes."

"I know what you're thinking, and no, I don't want you to interfere. There's no need for you to say anything to him. It's no different than you comparing my dancing to stepping on cockroaches."

"Oh? And what makes you think I have any intention of _talking _to that walking piece of merde, Louise?" grimly ignoring her mention of _his _culpability months ago. "Maybe I should remove that tongue of his- talking will become absolutely redundant for him. Much better for everyone, don't you agree?" He ran a hand through his sparse hair, and grabbed the bottle of wine and the opener with a savage movement, making short work of it. "Why didn't you tell me he was harassing you, Louise?"

She watched him as he opened the wine, as always struck by the remarkable dexterity of his hands; no wasted movements, no fumbling- ram the cork screw into the cork, a few sharp twists, and a neat pop as the cork came free. Marvelous hands which could just as easily stroke and caress her flesh into the most pleasurable of sensations. She sighed, and slipping up behind him, slid her arms around his waist and laid her head on his back. She felt his muscles tense and relax as she rubbed her cheek against his coat.

"The time Taillier is referring to was the day you were working at the piano all afternoon, and you didn't arrive above until the end of rehearsal. It means nothing to me and it shouldn't to you either. I don't want you anywhere near him, Erik. If he finds out who you are, he can make trouble. I can't bear the thought of anything happening to you again. Can't you understand that?"

He carefully set the bottle down and turned around in her arms, tugging her close. "And can't you understand _my _position? You are the prima ballerina, Louise, and for that I expect him to treat you with the respect you deserve. You have done very well since coming back to Paris- without _his_ help." He tilted her chin up and kissed her. "More importantly, I won't have him thinking he can expect anything from you in exchange for favors. That will never happen again. I would kill him first," he warned, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"It won't, and I would appreciate the end to such talk," she said firmly, and raised a hand to his rigid jaw. "You have nothing to worry about," and she laughed softly. "They're probably all out there listening as hard as they can, afraid to walk in on something. Which gives me time to give you your present," adroitly ending the conversation before it turned heated. She fished it out of her pocket. "Joyeaux Noel, Erik."

He was perfectly aware of her ploy, but allowed it as he looked curiously at the small package nestled in her hand. She held it out to him eagerly and he slowly took it from her, mesmerized by the little present. "Thank you. I will treasure it always," his voice hoarse as he stared at his very first gift.

She moved closer and slipped an arm around him. "It's customary, I think, to open a gift _then _thank the giver." His joy at the wrapped present was such that her heart ached for him. "Open it."

He nodded and did as she requested, again drawing out the process, wanting it to last as long as possible. His first gift. Many firsts for him, it would seem. Happiness, a new emotion for him wasn't pain free, for he felt as though his chest would burst. He took a deep breath and regarded the silver cufflinks bearing his initials. He was afraid to speak for fear he would shame himself in front of her. But he tried anyway. "I don't know what to say." He looked up from her gift, his eyes stricken. "I don't- "

"That you like them, perhaps?" she teased gently.

One finger reached out and touched the cool metal. "Yes," he hissed softly. He wrapped skeletal fingers around her neck and pulled her close, touching his forehead to hers. He insisted on wearing them right then and there, and she helped him do it. His enthusiasm was evident, as he repeatedly stole glances at his new cufflinks. Once more, she felt sad at the absence of love and caring for his entire life, vowing again to make him happy always. A large order to fill, and unrealistic, but she was young and in love and all things were possible.

"Here, I have something for you," and he removed a midnight blue jeweler's box from inside his coat, and carefully watched her while she opened the lid. She removed the heart shaped diamond necklace from its white satin bed, and held the delicate gold chain up to the light, admiring the luster of the diamond's facets, the prisms of light showering a rainbow of colors deep within. It took her breath away.

She looked up at him, thinking her gift to him, puny and inconsequential compared to this stunning jewel. But recalling his very real pleasure from the cufflinks, that tiny voice was silenced forever. Louise had no way of knowing that he had salted his person with some of the sultana's jewels on the night he delivered the snake to her bedchamber; the night he ended her reign of terror. He had made off with not only diamonds and emeralds, but rubies of the first water, and sapphires as large as the nail on his little finger.

But the gems were nearly worthless to him; much more valuable was this young woman's love. It belonged to him, and he would not allow anyone to come between them. It was far too late for that.

She looked up at him now, his love there in his eyes. Those strange eyes which glowed golden and managed at this very moment, to reveal his every emotion to her. She weakly chuckled. "Now _I_ don't know what to say. Except that it's lovely, and I will cherish it forever."

"It is my heart, you see. You are holding Erik's heart in the palm of your hand, Louise. Do not crush it, I implore you, for you indeed have the power to do so."

"Never. No, never," her voice husky as she wrapped him in her arms, swaying a bit as he brought his mouth down on hers. They were locked together, shutting out everything else, and even he was unaware of the light tap on the door.

Maria opened it a crack and peeked in, smiling when she saw the reason for their silence and quietly closed it. The wine could wait.


	37. Chapter 37

Snow flakes drifted lazily from the gray January sky on the second day of the month as Louise stood with Maria in the Gare du Nord. Soon her aunt would be boarding the train with Nadir Khan for the start of their journey to her home on the Bay of Naples. They would be gone for nearly a month, arriving back in Paris in time to complete preparations for the wedding which was to be held in the last week of February.

"I wish you were coming with us, cara. You could use a bit of a rest," Maria said, her sharp gaze taking in the dark smudges beneath her niece's eyes, "you haven't really stopped since you returned here."

"You know I can't leave now," she said dismissively, and glanced over to where Erik stood with Nadir Khan, allowing the two women the chance to say goodbye. "You won't be lonely at any rate," and she nodded her head at the Persian. "It's wonderful that you have a handsome gentleman, as well as a very kind one, escorting you so far. He's growing fond of you, tante, and it's reciprocated, isn't it?"

Maria stared indignantly at her niece, refusing to answer. "Erik is worried about you. You would do well to listen to him and take a few days away from the theatre."

"Are you two putting your heads together behind my back?"

Maria laughed shortly at something so patently ridiculous. "You know he would never do such a thing! Where you are concerned though, he is a little more transparent. Take some time off for yourself, child."

"At the moment I can't. Vincente is just waiting for a chance to pull me down a peg and thrust Marthe into the top spot. Of course, he'll have to go through the managers first, but somehow they don't strike me as being very astute when it comes to dance."

"Why is he treating you this way?"

Louise regarded her aunt with eyes which were suddenly very old- ageless in the way of a woman who understands the machinations of men. "Because I don't want him. H-He fancies me, I think," not really wanting to discuss _why _Breda was tormenting her. "He dangles my position as principal dancer before me with threats and long days, expecting capitulation, and when I don't give him that pleasure, he makes me work harder than anyone else. I wish he would have stayed in Naples where he belonged. He may ruin everything if he continues in this manner."

"You mean Erik, of course."

She nodded wearily. "Yes. I don't want him involved. I've worked with Breda before and I'm very familiar with his tactics." She gave her aunt a shrewd glance. "You deflected _my _question. You and Nadir get along wonderfully, and it's more than time you took an interest in someone else. You are a lovely woman who chooses to bury herself in the kitchen as though cooking for everyone is the only thing that's meaningful. Allow him to take you out for a meal- preferably one with candle light and moon-glow," she said with a playful smile.

"He is merely escorting me to Naples, Louise, and he will stay in the hotel, so you can wipe that suggestive simper off of your face," Maria said gruffly, her cheeks turning pink. "Maybe _you _are the one I should worry about. Do you know how many times I have caught you and Erik in compromising situations? And you an unmarried girl!"

"Hardly that! Twenty-four isn't exactly fresh from the schoolroom," she protested.

Maria shook her head. "Yet very much unwed, niece. Why buy the cow when he can get the milk free?" she said tartly.

Louise gurgled laughter. "Because Erik detests milk!"

Her aunt's mouth thinned with displeasure. "Too much levity in young people anymore! And no decorum whatsoever. I was not referring to milk and you well know it! Be that as it may, _I_ am an old woman and no one would think twice about Nadir and myself traveling together. We are merely friends. You, however, have your entire life ahead of you and should have a care what others will think."

Louise just managed to stop another laugh at Maria's description of herself; her aunt was an attractive and vibrant woman- hardly old. "We are not doing anything that would make you disapprove." So far, she thought wryly._ "_This is 1882 _and _Paris, you know! Not the dark ages. Women are coming into their own now, but beware of friends, tante. They can become so much more," she glanced over at Erik and met his eyes, her pulse quickening in response to that heavy-lidded gaze, "and the love of one's life," she replied quietly. He had accompanied her to the station knowing full well he would be gawked at, as he nearly always was, even when wearing his prosthetic nose and the fedora tugged down as far as he could get it. His great height and slender build always drew the eye first before traveling to his face.

Maria looked between the two of them, feeling as though she were intruding on a very private moment, but nevertheless brought her niece's attention back to her. "Stop trying to match-make, Louise! We are not romantic in the least."

Sorelli dragged her eyes away from Erik and looked at her aunt dubiously. She chuckled as Maria's blush deepened and she became younger and altogether prettier, and thought wickedly that Nadir might have difficulty remaining a gentleman when Maria looked like that. She raised her hands in surrender. "All right! You have made your point. You and your _friend._"

Maria glanced at Erik who was half hidden in a patch of shadow, as though murky corners sent gray fingers out to ensnare and draw him in. He was ignoring the curious looks from passers-by, standing there much like a potentate surrounded by his lowly minions, patiently waiting for Louise to say goodbye to her aunt. "You better take him home now, child. He looks grimmer than usual."

"Yes," she said fondly. "He doesn't care much for crowds, but it's not just this," she said, gesturing to the busy station. "Erik is of the opinion that he should be doing more in regards to Breda, and I have unequivocally asked him not to interfere," Louise solemnly looked at her aunt, "and he's not happy about it."

"What can he do?"

"Nothing good, tante," she replied dryly.

She waited until a noisy family went by, the mother exhorting her three children to keep close as they fell behind, turning to gape slack-jawed at the strange looking man. Louise caught them staring and was irritated. "I only wish it were possible for him to take his rightful place in the theatre instead of below it. Erik would make a marvelous music director! Much better than Reyer, and he would be a wonderful conductor as well. He is much more perceptive when it comes to music," she said proudly. "I only wish-" her words stuttered to a halt, knowing the die had been cast long ago for him to remain nameless and unheard.

"What makes you think he would be comfortable doing so?"

Louise shrugged. "I don't really. It's just some wishful thinking on my part. That's all," and she met his eyes again before turning back to her aunt. "I can see him poised in front of the orchestra. I can actually see it! I can almost hear it sometimes too," she whispered, "imparting his love for the music to them." She stared at her aunt and said in a hushed voice, "I can't imagine how it must feel for him to listen year after year to the masters' works being performed in _his _opera house and have no role in it other than as an observer. He is a genius, tante, and it sorrows me that no one will ever know it. His talents are wasted, hidden away as they are, and he will never get his due."

"He has you now. I think Erik counts that as a great blessing, Louise."

She nodded quickly and looked away, shaking off her morose thoughts and held her arms out to Maria. "Have a wonderful time and enjoy yourself! I'll be fine," and the two women hugged each other tightly.

The Persian observed them and turned to the man beside him. "You will have Louise all to yourself for a month. I would expect you to be smiling ear to ear with your good fortune. Does nothing make you happy?"

He swiveled his head around, removing his eyes from her. "I am over the moon as we speak, daroga. Yes, over the moon that you are going far, far away and out of my sight for an entire month. Don't I _look_ happy to you?"

Nadir snorted. "How can one tell? You always appear to have swallowed something sour. The only time you seem halfway pleasant is when you are with Louise."

"Ah, there you have it. I am not with Louise, but rather an insipid Persian clown who laughs when he should cry, and cries when he should laugh."

"I am quite used to your insults, but you are moodier than usual. Why? You have the woman you adore and soon you will be married. Why can't you enjoy yourself for once?"

He looked glumly at Nadir. "It would be heaven to me if she wasn't spending so much of her time on that damned stage," and he thrust his hands savagely in his pockets and began rocking on the balls of his feet.

"I never thought such sacrilege would leave your mouth. You like nothing better than watching production after production, especially when it's a sold-out House. Aside from no salary, which you do not require, what has changed?"

"It has changed because I have something far more important to do than worry about what insipid opera is chosen for another regurgitation of it." He jerked his head at Louise. "She is afraid of losing her primary position to another because of that horny cretin who has a vendetta against her," he said in disgust, "but I'll not let it continue much longer. She is near exhaustion now, and irritable with her Erik at times."

Nadir heard the implied threat and began to worry. "You wouldn't try something foolish, would you?"

He wearily shook his head. "I promised her I would not murder the buffoon and I will not," but this declaration did little to reassure the Persian.

"See that you don't. You will be married soon enough and your happiness is assured, but you must desist from your past...endeavors. You certainly don't want her worrying that you will attack him in some way and harm yourself in the process. After you are married, you may whisk her away then, and the two of you can hide from the world if you are so inclined."

Erik merely regarded the emerald eyes of the daroga with that unblinking stare that ofttimes appeared slightly reptilian. It always managed to rattle him. Sorelli could have told him what that gaze meant. Something the Persian had just said intrigued him, and he would process what bit of information could be gleaned from it and use it to his advantage.

Nadir dropped his eyes and shuffled his feet; to him that serpentine look meant calamity for someone. He was suddenly very glad that he would be gone for a month. Erik could still make him uncomfortable, even after seeing him near death in the way that he had.

"Daroga?"

It was uttered softly, but something in that smooth, silky tone, raised the short hairs on his nape; nevertheless he turned to him and casually said, "Yes, I know. You can not wait to see the back of me for one entire month. You are over the moon at the-" The words dried up in his mouth when those deadly eyes fixed themselves on his face.

"You will be a perfect gentleman with Maria and not take advantage of your position as her escort. She is a rarity in this world- a compassionate and caring woman, and she will soon be a member of my family," and he said this with a note of pride and wonder that this was so. "If I find that you have in any way taken liberties with her which were not well received, I will remove the offending part of your anatomy and you will have much in common with the shah's own eunuchs," and his eyes narrowed dangerously, "for you will count yourself as one of their number."

He had no intention of arguing with him. Not when he was in this mood, but he did take exception to Erik thinking him capable of harming a woman. Any woman. In fact, the man had it all wrong. Abu-Uzraeel was guilty of that particular transgression. Not He. Kohinoor had been a she-devil, but a woman all the same, and Erik had killed her in a brutal manner with no remorse. Ignorance of his own villainy never ceased to amaze the Persian. "I think you will find that I will not be taking advantage of anyone, least of all Maria," Khan said quietly.

"Then we understand each other," and said no more.

The two women joined them, and amid a flurry of goodbyes, Nadir and Maria boarded the train. Louise slipped her arm through Erik's and hugged it close to her side. "We have an hour before rehearsal. Why don't you and I find something interesting to fill it?" and she waggled her eyebrows at him. He impassively returned her look, but she had caught the telltale gleam of interest in his eyes and stopped in the middle of the crowded train station, pulling his head down for a quick kiss. "You cannot fool _me_, monsieur! I saw those lips twitching a little. Out with it! I demand a fully fledged smile this instant," and she grabbed her hat when he bent down and instead planted another firm kiss on her mouth.

"Hoyden," he said with reluctant amusement. "Everyone can see you making a spectacle of yourself with the gargoyle in their midst. I am quite certain they think I climbed down from the very top of Notre Dame, so I implore you to be careful, for they may decide to put you away someplace where you won't harm yourself anymore." He gripped her arms in his large hands, as usual always more at peace when he touched her.

People were indeed staring in curiosity at the odd couple standing so close together, and Louise glared back at them, annoyed by their rudeness. She sniffed and tossed her head. "They have no idea how brilliant you are, and because of their ignorance they never will."

His hold on her arm slid down to her hand, and watching her eyes, raised it to his lips and kissed each finger, pausing on the one wearing his ring. His little champion. "Let us leave this place. I am weary of it," and as he handed her inside the carriage, he regarded her tired eyes and pulled her head down on his shoulder for the short trip to the Garnier. "Rest awhile, dear."

She nestled closer to him, unconcerned that her hat was knocked askew. It felt good to close her eyes. He held her in the circle of his arms as the sway of the coach and the clop of the horses' hooves lulled her into a light doze. He wouldn't remain on the side and watch her collapse; his lips resting in her hair, the plan started to formulate, and by the end of the following day, he had set everything into motion.

* * *

"The leitmotif should suggest the tone for this act, Sorelli. It leads into the first of the fouettes in this scene, so do not be so damned timid with it!" He arrogantly stood there, hands on slender hips and tried to stare her down, but she was having none of it. Although she was shaking with exhaustion, she squared her shoulders and stood taller.

"I am well aware of what occurs in Act III, Vincente. It's not the first time I've portrayed Odette," she said quietly, slender as a reed in her white gauze skirt and fitted bodice.

Breda swept an arm out to the dancers still left onstage, including Uri Orlov, the principal male dancer portraying Prince Siegfried. "All of you clear out for the day," and when Louise gratefully started to leave with them, he stopped her. "No, not you."

Estelle stared from Louise to Vincente, disturbed by his persecution of her friend. She opened her mouth to protest, not at all certain what she would say, but Sorelli caught her eye and gave a slight shake of her head. With a tiny nod, she left the stage.

When they were alone, Breda approached her slowly, and signaled the practice violinist to begin the pas de deux for the second scene- the Love Duet. Louise felt a moment of unease and shook it off. "Why not keep Uri here then, Vincente?"

He shook his head and held out his hand. "Because I can show you how I want it done much better if I dance it with you."

He looked speculatively at her as they flawlessly executed the moves, graceful and lovely to watch. They made an attractive couple, their bodies in peak condition with slender limbs wrapped in lean muscle, and if Breda's ego wasn't far greater than his talent, Sorelli would have considered it a pleasure to dance the pas with him. He was a profligate and womanizer, but he was also an outstanding dancer and master of the ballet. Nevertheless, she was becoming impatient with him; his touch on her seemed over-long and too familiar, and her temper was beginning to unravel, when a loud crash caused them to stumble to a halt. Louise looked in dismay to see one of the heavy sandbags used for a fly-weight, lying near the center of the stage. It had been nowhere near them, but it certainly caught their attention. As it was meant to do.

Angered, Breda swore viciously and stared up into the darkness overhead. "Come down here, whoever you may be!" He glared at Louise, incensed that someone had been so careless. There was an uneasy silence that grew in leaps and bounds until the ballet master realized that the culprit had slunk away. "I'll find out who the thoughtless fool is before tomorrow is done! This is unprofessional and would never have happened at the San Carlo."

"It could well happen in any theatre, Vincente." _Any theatre with an __angry __in-House ghost. _Her anxiety came to the fore, knowing Erik was up to his old tricks.

Breda quickly left his rising ire behind and once more focused on the prima ballerina. "Are you...hungry, Louise?" His tone implied a hunger of another kind, and her apprehension climbed a little higher.

"What happened to _work? _I thought this was all about the clumsy dancer needing more time onstage."

"You...clumsy?" and curtly dismissed the musician. "No, this has more to do with a wish for the dancer's company."

"I'm afraid not, Vincente," and she turned to go.

"Wait, Sorelli! Why the rush to leave? We can have some dinner after you change into street clothes." He held out a supple hand to her, brooking no arguments. "Come. I'll walk you to your dressing room."

Her look was unflinching. "No...thank you. I have other plans."

"Come now, Louise. We have months to catch up with one another. A little wine, some dinner- I insist."

"I'm afraid that will not be possible. She is having dinner with me this evening," another voice answered him, and she watched in shock as Erik materialized out of the dimness of the auditorium, and leisurely climbed the steps to join them onstage.

"Introduce us, Louise," his eyes never leaving Breda.

His bearing was one of cool disdain, even as Vincente did a double-take at his menacing appearance. Erik walked easily over to Louise and stood beside her. She had no option but to do as he requested. "Vincente Breda, may I present to you my fiance, Erik St. Clair." She was in her own way, happy that he had shown up when he did, barring any repercussions to Erik from his exposure to this man. Vincente was not one to be casually rebuffed.

"I must admit...this is a surprise. I had no idea you were affianced to anyone, let alone," his eyes raking Erik from head to foot, halted on his masked face, "_this _gentleman. May I offer my congratulations, or should I say my...condolences?"

Louise wound an arm around Erik's, keeping it pinned tightly against her side. She had felt him stiffen at the implied barb, and prepared herself, if at all possible, to keep him from attacking Breda.

He put his hand over hers and gave it a light squeeze. "Condolences are definitely in order. After all, she has to suffer the presence of a buffoon and libertine who has no conception of the word _no_."

Breda took a step forward, but paused when he saw thin lips turning up in a ghastly smile. "Who the hell are you? What kind of man would hide his face and what kind of woman permits it?"

"Ah, but which of us is truly in hiding? You merely pretend your devotion to ballet, when it is very clear that you use it to hunt women for your own personal gain," Erik said softly, and Vincente took another step back at the hard glitter in the man's unnatural eyes.

"Erik? May we leave? I am more than ready to do so," and she resolutely tugged on his hand.

He was prepared to ignore her, but weighing his options, decided to heed her advice. For now. She wouldn't appreciate a renewal of the opera ghost, nor would she enjoy watching him throttle the bastard in front of her. He met the other man's eyes, seeing the triumph in them. Obviously, Breda thought he had won this round, but there would be a reckoning all the same.

Erik nodded to him in an almost friendly manner. "Another time, perhaps." He turned to Louise, and relieved, she preceded him backstage to her dressing room, while Vincente watched her leave with disbelieving eyes. What manner of men were these French that she would prefer _that _to him? Shaking his head, he began to devise ways of making Louise regret her sorry choice.

When he closed the dressing room door behind them, she turned around and eyed him grimly. Ignoring her present mood, he pulled her into his arms for a kiss, and at first she resisted, wanting only to chastise him for his interference. Gradually though, she felt herself relaxing, and rested her lips against his throat, her hands sliding beneath his jacket and making their slow way up his back. His mouth found hers again, coaxing a response from her which more than matched his. He was disappointed when she drew away from him and stepped back.

"Why did you drop that fly-weight? That is something a malicious opera ghost would do- _not _my fiance. And you let him see you! Why? He's a spiteful man and he will now be looking for ways to make trouble."

"What would you have me do? Allow him to drool all over you?" He tried for a little tranquility, although he was far from feeling any, and gestured to her clothing. "Change your clothes and we will go have some supper and you can rest. You're exhausted whether you want to admit it or not."

She went behind her dressing screen. "This conversation isn't over yet, you know. It's just put aside for now."

"I know that very well without you telling me," he shot back.

She whipped her head around the screen and stuck her tongue out at him before diving back behind it muttering, "Always have to get that last word in, don't you, Erik?"

"I heard that, Sorelli," to which she laughed and hurried to change.

They made their way to his little home where he put together a light dinner of eggs and toast, serving her as she sat on the sofa, her shoes off and legs curled beneath her. While she ate, he hunkered down and coaxed the fire into a warm blaze as Louise discovered just how hungry she was, devouring the meal and leaving nothing behind but a few crumbs.

He gestured to her plate as she scraped it clean, "I do believe those flowers are painted on," he said with amusement as he dusted his hands and stood up. "I can very easily fix you more, if you like."

Louise glanced up to find him watching her as she popped the last bit of toast into her mouth and grinned around it. "No. That was delicious though. You have a way with eggs that even Maria would admire."

He approached her, eying the empty plate with satisfaction. "Dessert?" and when she shook her head, "Very well. I suppose I can offer it to you tomorrow, however apple tart is best eaten while it's fresh."

She looked up at that and smiled. "You remembered! In that case, I will gladly take it off your hands." He fetched her tart and a cup of tea to go with it and returned to find her curled up on the sofa asleep. He set the cup and plate down, and was reaching for the throw to cover her with, when her eyes opened and she blinked sleepily, yawning. She eyed the plate with interest and sat up. "You're going to spoil me," as she reached for the dish and took a bite of the tart, sighing in contentment.

"How do you know that isn't my intent?"

She loaded up her spoon and held it out to him. "Have some."

He shook his head. "I wouldn't think of removing a single bite of your pleasure."

She imperiously held out the spoon. "Sharing a dessert will seal our bond, Erik. Didn't you know that?" she said teasingly. "You _want _to bring us closer, don't you?"

"Yes, of course, silly girl, but I have something else in mind to do that."

"You do?" she said innocently, and coyly fluttered her lashes, but continued to hold out the spoon. Admitting defeat, he sighed dramatically and Louise giggled. He approached her and reluctantly bent down, dutifully opening his mouth. She fed him the loaded spoonful and he made a theatrical show of painfully chewing and swallowing, producing another laugh from her. "You have quite the flair for melodrama and would make a divine Otello."

He snorted in disparagement. "Odd, isn't it? I don't recall a scene where Desdemona cruelly forced him into eating a sickly sweet mess of apples and dough! If she had, I could better understand her tragic end."

"Don't be grumpy. It's not sickly sweet- it's perfect." When she would have got him to eat another mouthful he stubbornly refused.

"I think one is more than sufficient, Louise," he said firmly, his levity used up.

Heeding his tone, she made short work of the rest of it. "There you have it! Our bond is now sealed forevermore. For your cooperation, monsieur, _you_ get a kiss."

"Now that is much more to my liking! I will take as many of those as you may offer," and he touched his lips to hers, tasting cinnamon and apples. He delighted in her playfulness. "Warm enough?"

She held her arms out to him. "Mm. I will be as soon as you join me." He didn't need to be told twice and gratefully sat down beside her, immediately pulling her into his arms. "You are a lovely man," she whispered, as she settled comfortably into his embrace.

"Only you could think something so ridiculous, Louise," he said gruffly, but she heard the satisfaction inherent in his voice.

Her head on his thin shoulder, she rested in drowsy contentment. It was true though. How could she love him if it wasn't? She felt warm and secure in his arms, her eyelids becoming weighted down and heavy, but her mind wouldn't allow her to rest just yet. "I could have dealt with him on my own," she muttered quietly.

He nodded once. "Yes, I am sure of it, now close your eyes," and pressed her cheek to his shoulder again.

She struggled up and gave him a stern look. "Do not make light of this, Erik! I don't want you going to war with Breda."

He arched an eyebrow. "Afraid I'll decide to murder him and hide the body?"

"No." _Yes._ "It's not just the ballet master and you know it! It's your easy acceptance of violence as the answer to everything!" She bit her lip, knowing in her heart she didn't want to walk that pathway again. It was littered with the deeds and victims of his brutal past, and more recently, the events right here at the Garnier; she wanted very much to put it all behind them and start anew. Loving a murderer and extortionist wasn't for the faint of heart it would seem. She sighed wearily and rubbed at her forehead where a throbbing had begun between her eyes. "I don't want to worry about you hurting anyone and that includes yourself. Let me handle him. I've done it before."

"Yes, I saw how you took _care _of him before, Louise. Why do you think I don't want him in your life again? You belong to me. No one else," and his lip rolled in that way he had, that to her meant he was slipping into anger.

She sat up and looked at him with the beginnings of her own anger, mixed as it was with the hurt from his harsh words. _That _particular mistake would not go away. "Is that what is going through your head at this moment? That I would willingly jump into his bed to keep my principal dancer status? How dare you!"

He shook his head and timidly reached for her, knowing he had gone too far- putting a big foot in his mouth where it often ended up- right alongside the bitter taste of jealousy. To his relief, she settled back against him, albeit stiffly, and he tried to dig himself out of the hole he'd planted himself in. Relationships would never be his strong suit, it seemed. "No, I don't expect that from you. Not at all. But I don't trust him to leave you alone. Look what he has done with rehearsals- making you work longer hours and tormenting you in front of the other rats. And he is making you lose your temper with Erik," and she had to smile hearing the self-pity in his voice. "Come away with me. We can go anywhere you like." He took her hand and held it up to his twisted cheek, sliding her soft palm over the papery skin, and closed his eyes, feeling a wave of calm wash over him.

"I'm not exactly new at this. I can take care of myself, I'll have you know! I don't need you to charge in and come to my rescue." She regarded him closely, exasperated with him, but just as quickly as her anger had flared, it died. Emotional upheaval was the price she paid for loving a man like Erik, and she had run the gamut of them all in one evening. She hugged him tightly and rubbed her cheek against his coat. "I'm sorry," she whispered, looking up at him. "I suppose in a way you are right. I do need some time away from the theatre- I've been going at it for months now and very soon we will do just that, but not yet."

She ran her fingers through his hair knowing how much he loved it. "Have you been working on Don Juan while I'm at rehearsal? You haven't mentioned it in a long while."

He said nothing, just pulled her closer into the shelter of his arms.

"Erik? You still work on it, don't you?"

His silence continued, until Louise stirred, then finally, "No. I have very little interest in it of late."

She turned her head and regarded him quietly. "Why not?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Because that music doesn't reflect my circumstances anymore. It is my darkness which gives life to the music. Gives life to my despair. I no longer wish to revisit it," sighing with contentment at the feel of her fingers caressing his scalp.

Louise nodded, trying to understand. "I'm almost sorry I never got to hear it."

He put a finger beneath her chin and kissed her. With his thumb, he lightly stroked her mouth, admiring the plump curve to her bottom lip. Lips he was permitted to kiss often. "I am writing something far better for you, Louise. Something to worship at your feet."

"I don't want you at my feet! I want you beside me." She sat up a little, fighting her drowsiness. "Tell me about your new music."

"Someday, perhaps. It is early days for that yet," he said pensively, and she picked up on his suddenly dour mood and murmured soothingly, "We're going away, just you and I as soon as Swan Lake is finished. Simply let me do my job- which is to dance."

"And you know that is why you will eventually make yourself ill! You are over-taxing yourself and it is all because of that horny Italian goat! Step down and come away with me now. I have no wish to expose myself any more than I already have, but I won't stand aside for him to exert undue pressure on you from petty spite!" Something he was more than familiar with himself, he thought with very little compunction. This was a war of sorts, but this time he wasn't extorting money or perks. Instead, his only desire was for the welfare of the woman tucked up beside him, who was being foolishly stubborn. He would not allow her to be worked into ill health.

She put a hand on each side of his face. She looked earnestly at him as her thumbs stroked his twisted cheekbones. He had closed his eyes at her light touch, basking in her warmth and love for him alone. He enjoyed her ministrations, while his mind conjured up ways to get her out from underneath Breda's control- without resorting to killing him. It was slightly problematic, and he did enjoy a good puzzle, but nowhere near the enjoyment he derived from her lips on his dead face. Louise smiled as she continued to give him her undivided attention. And in his contentment, he decided he would never lose this blissful feeling- would have much more of it, and that meant he must take matters into his own hands and save Louise from her own recalcitrant nature.

She belonged to him. It was that simple. After a lifetime of being alone, he had his own woman like any other man, and if he did something she didn't approve of, all in her best interests, of course, at some point she would have to realize he did it for her. She must. He was finding it harder to concentrate with her lips brushing across his sensitive skin. He was in a near constant state of arousal lately, and it was turning out to be both pleasure _and_ pain. What would happen if they could forget the world for a time and concentrate solely on each other? More of what she was doing now. His mind drifted off and began work on the myriad details, even as his joy in her touch continued to delight.

She kissed the corner of his mouth and began her tender assault on his face, planting kisses everywhere as she tried to make up for lost time. A lifetime of no tenderness at all. She would pledge her life to giving him joy, but first she had to silence that tiny voice in her head which was intent on growing louder. She stopped her kisses and his eyes fluttered open in disappointment and met her serious gaze. "_You _listen to me, monsieur. Your days as the opera ghost are well and truly over. No more killing, no more threats, and no more kidnappings! Do you hear me, Erik?"

He looked back at her, caught between a half-truth and an outright lie.

"Erik?"

"Yes. I heard you, Louise."

She searched his yellow eyes for- _what_? Deceit? She studied him closely, realizing he could hide his true thoughts from her very well if he needed to and she would never be the wiser. He had built a lifetime upon subterfuge, and it was an ingrained habit. With little for her to go on, she at last nodded and gave him one more well-placed kiss, slipping back down on his shoulder again. "I love you."

His arms tightened gratefully around her, feeling as though whole minutes had just gone by instead of mere seconds, and he rested his cheek on top of her head as her breathing deepened into sleep. "And I love you," his breath ghosting through her hair, "more, I think than you will ever know."

He contemplated her words. No more killing, threats, or kidnapping.

Well, she was correct on one of those.

* * *

**Uh oh. Oh, noes. Whoops-a-daisy. Oh, crap. Pick one. He's at it again.**


	38. Chapter 38

A light scattering of snow had fallen by the noon hour, and a stiff wind whirled icy pellets of it into the faces of those brave enough to be outdoors on that blustery January day. The gloomy afternoon was now edging into the evening hours, but inside the Garnier it was business as usual; another late day rehearsal- another dismissal of Orlov and the corps de ballet, leaving the prima ballerina alone onstage with the ballet master.

He observed them from the deep shadows above the stage as Breda and Louise performed the pas de deux to the practice pianist's music. Nearly three days had passed after deciding to take matters into his own hands. His mouth a grim slash, his body shook with anger as the Italian's hands touched Louise in an all too overfamiliar way. His rage grew as he helplessly watched their movements, graceful and fluid, right up to the coda when Louise started to noticeably tire.

Her slender legs no longer heeding her commands, she stumbled out of her arabesque penche and stopped altogether. She pushed hair back from her forehead and hissed in pain as her foot cramped. In a week's time the company would have their first dress rehearsal with the orchestra and she couldn't afford to have her body fail now, as she tried walking the cramp out.

His burning eyes tracked her progression across the stage, until finally he had enough and quickly slipped down from the scaffolding. He had only just managed to stop the powerful urge to fashion hemp line into a make-shift gallows, dropping it over the ballet master's head and hoisting him far above the stage. His satisfaction would have been a savage pleasure, watching him kicking and thrashing in panic as life-giving air deserted his lungs. The desire had been so strong, he had reflexively curled his fingers into the palms of his hands, the nails cutting half moons in the skin.

Breda fumed in silence for a moment then dismissed the pianist for the day before castigating her in earnest. "We are very close to opening night, Sorelli. You don't want word getting back to the Russians that they can perform Swan Lake better than the French, do you?"

"Then why won't you let me perform it with the one I'm slated to dance opposite? I'm sure Uri needs the practice time just as much as I!" She glanced up at him as she halted and stood on one leg, her fingers kneading the cramped muscle. "But I'm beginning to see why the San Carlo let you go, Vincente. Has your style changed so much that your intent is to _kill _the dancers before the performance even begins?" her mounting frustration evident as she straightened up. Hands on hips, she began walking in circles as she tested her foot.

"You have become lazy, that is your problem! Ballet in Paris means dancing like the meanest coryphee. No fire and no brilliance. You French!" he sneered. "The whole lot of you are entirely too pedestrian and dull." He glared at her before looking into the darkened auditorium now cleaned and repaired, awaiting the renovated chandelier- due to be installed just before the debut performance of Swan Lake. He put a hand to his eyes and squinted into the theatre. "Well, where is he? He's been haunting your rehearsals all week long!"

She stifled a gasp- haunting was a word she connected with a ghost- a phantom. She studied Vincente for hidden meanings, and saw nothing but contempt on his face.

"He is overdue, Sorelli," he threw over his shoulder as he stared out into the darkened theatre. He laughed harshly as he spied that familiar thin figure striding purposefully toward the stage. "No, no, I was wrong. Here is your masked lover now," his voice loaded with scorn, and sure enough Erik was coming down the aisle, his glowing eyes never leaving Breda's.

"Rehearsal is over for you this evening, Louise. Go to your room and change your clothes and I will join you in a moment," he said quietly, not sparing her a glance.

"It is not your place to dismiss the prima ballerina," Breda said haughtily, "regardless of your association with her." He turned to Louise. "You will not leave this stage, Sorelli. Not until I release you. Understood?"

She stared at Vincente, torn between telling him to go to the devil or telling her fiance more or less the same thing. Erik finally deigned to look at her and said abruptly, "Practice is over for the day, my dear. Leave us, if you would," and turned back to Breda, silently daring him to stop her.

"Do not presume you have _my_ permission to go." Vincente warned through clenched teeth. He was trying very hard for mastery, but the other man's malevolent eyes were unnerving him and he shifted his feet. A move not lost on his opponent.

Louise only hesitated a moment; she _was_ tired; months of rehearsals and performances had taken their toll- she felt like a candle burning down to the wick, and the now brutal pace wasn't helping. Taking one last look at Erik's unblinking regard of the ballet master, she took the low road and left them to it, but before she quit the stage, she whispered a warning, "Remember what we discussed. Keep your hands to yourself!"

"You'll pay for this, Sorelli, I promise you!" Vincente shouted at her retreating back and watched the other man warily- his bearing was seemingly relaxed, but those yellow eyes were not- something elemental was being held in check; an icy inferno awaiting the right moment to be let loose, and it would not stop until blood was spilled- _his _blood. He shook himself, usually not one for imagining things, but the prima ballerina's choice in men had become horrific. Clearly, St. Clair was more than he seemed.

He appeared calm enough every time he arrived, although he would shoot Vincente a glance of pure venom, before herding Louise from the stage, her arm tucked through his, nice and cozy. Whether it was the dancer's foyer or the great proscenium stage, he was there, looking gothic and forbidding in stark black- a nightmare of a man. Sorelli was surely mad to allow his touch. Vincente had done some digging, trying to find out the man's identity. He hadn't learned very much. St. Clair was a musician, a pianist and composer not originally from Paris, but he had fought in the siege of the city, and was grievously wounded in the face at Villeneuve Saint Georges in September of 1870. Apparently he had money from somewhere, for he was a subscriber of good standing with Richard and Moncharmin. When asked if they had met the man, they replied in the negative. One needn't see the cash cow, merely accept its bounty, Breda thought acidly. Complaining to anyone about the Garnier's very own illustrious, albeit generous war hero, would be a wasted effort on his part.

Unbeknownst to Vincente, Louise had fabricated most of Erik's new identity. She refused to keep him hidden away, and cajoled him into letting her put about his history as a wounded war veteran. To please her, he greased the whole concoction with money to the opera house, something he did willingly enough, and wasn't surprised when very few questions were asked. Money was a significant motivator in the world of the theatre. The irony did not escape him; he was essentially giving back what he had extorted for years and he found this to be very amusing. He still preferred the bulk of his activities to take place well after dark; that would never change, but he at least was able to traverse the opera house with a little more openness and take his place beside Louise as was his right.

Vincente now eyed Erik with apprehension; there was something sinister about him that wasn't from the mask alone. Breda had at last come to the startling conclusion that the man standing before him would not back down from any confrontation presented to him; in actuality, he would be the one to begin it. Nevertheless, he was surprised when St. Clair smiled. It was a disquieting upturn of the lips, cold and predatory, but soon translated into a chill and precise voice.

"Sorelli is of the opinion that I would like to remove some of your vital organs- via your nose," and the chilling smile grew, "that would be correct. I would enjoy it, but she considers it a loss to kill you." He shook his head. "Not from any affection for you, of course. She loves her Erik, you see, and intends to save his black soul. She is very optimistic. One can't save what is already lost. No, not at all, but because she wishes it, you will live." His voice was a silken purr. "For now."

Vincente was startled to find the other man standing disturbingly close, unaware of his having moved. Caught off guard, he took a step back, uneasy in the heavy silence of the empty stage. It was just the two of them. Why, he could- "What do you want? I'm a busy man and I have no time for your frequent interruptions. Now if you don't mind, I must-"

"Oh, but I do mind. You would do well to revise your attitude on many things," his intense gaze traveled the length of Breda before staring deep into the man's frightened eyes, "beginning with Louise. She is an exceptional dancer, of which you are well aware, but you are sending her closer to collapse. The managers will not appreciate a stand-in at this juncture if she can not perform. More to the point..._I _will not appreciate it." He tilted his head and observed the other man as though looking at a nasty bit of offal. "You really must stop singling her out. You have an entire company to inspire_. _Is that the word I want? Or is plunder a better choice?" He shrugged. "No matter. As long as you understand that Louise is my concern, and outside of the ballet, none of yours. Think about it, monsieur and remain healthy."

"Perhaps I should inform the managers of your threats," he retorted, his manner defensive as he backed slowly away from the other man, wondering how much of this confrontation was due to his past relationship with Louise. Did he know? he wondered sickly. "They will be interested to learn how you halted an important rehearsal." Even to his own ears his voice sounded high-pitched and feeble; he loathed the feeling of being put in his place. That was his prerogative to do, and one with which he had excelled- until now.

Erik nodded agreeably. "By all means. I invite you to do so," and brushed past him on his way backstage.

Vincente was frozen in place for a full minute before his quaking limbs would move. He kept glancing over his shoulder on the way to his small office, expecting any minute to be grabbed from behind by the lunatic Sorelli had taken up with. Safely locked behind his door, he headed straight for the bottle of Burgundy always sitting on the corner of his desk. He poured some wine into a glass and gulped it down quickly, following it with another. By his third, the shaking was gone and so was his fear, to be replaced by a welcome anger. He would not bow to the French freak. These cretins would learn how Neapolitans reacted to threats.

Louise turned when he came through the door, and paused in the act of fixing her hair. "I hope Breda was able to leave the stage under his own power! Has he replaced me yet, Erik, or do we require a new master to succeed the one now deceased?"

He raised an unseen eyebrow. "Your levity, Louise is refreshing, and it is no on both counts."

"I won't thank you for fighting my battles! I told you once before that I could take care of Breda on my own. Why do you consider yourself to be so much better at managing my life than me?"

"Because in this instance I am," he snapped, staring hard at her. "When is the last time you really looked at yourself? Hmm? You have dropped too much weight and you're not sleeping well, are you? You _live_ in this damned place. No one should have that much dedication to their art, for it will eventually wear one down to a dried out husk!"

She stood up and walked over to him, the light of battle in her eyes. "Well, well. Look at the pot calling the kettle black! You don't do either of those things, Erik, as I keep telling you! You barely eat and merely catnap, but you will try and bully me into it. I am perfectly fine, and on opening night you will see, so kindly keep out of my business! And if I am not mistaken, didn't you kidnap a singer to feed your tremendous dedication to this theatre?"

His eyes went flat at the mention of Christine Daae, and he said with a sneer, "Yes, yes I did and look how well that turned out!" He hastily cleared his throat, painfully aware of the irony in her words and said weakly, "I really do not see the parallels in your argument, Louise."

She sniffed disdainfully. "Well, of course you don't! But I must point out that I am to marry you, not consign my entire life over so you may order me about whenever it pleases you to do so!"

"You know very well that is exactly what the law allows, my dear. I may, at my own leisure, order you about with impunity." and he raised a hand when she opened her mouth. "_If _ I may continue?" and gave her a speaking glance. "I merely point out what the law permits- not the kind of marriage Erik intends for Louise. Wedded bliss is his ardent hope." He regarded her from narrowed eyes, trying very hard to keep the anger at bay. She was over-worked, and if he was any judge, not thinking clearly. He would take her below and give her some dinner- and one last chance to come away with him willingly. If not, then choice would be removed. He would save her from her own stubborn nature, and take her somewhere she could rest and leave behind her worries. They would enjoy a sojourn far away from the opera house and have a marvelous time. If she was still speaking to him.

Taking a deep breath, he walked over to her and held out his arms, and for a very tense moment, they did nothing but stare at one another, her eyes suspiciously bright and resentful, his, cautious and hopeful. Something moving in their amber depths decided her, and with an irritated huff, she went into his embrace.

He let out the breath he was holding, feeling at the moment, nothing but relief. "Forgive me," he fervently whispered into her hair. "You are right, of course, and I will conspire to do as you wish." _Liar._

She stood stiffly in the circle of his arms, but her affectionate nature melted the anger, just as the sun thaws an early spring snow, and her arms likewise wound around his spare waist. She rested her head on his chest and chuckled tiredly. "_What _am to do with you?" she murmured.

"Just what you are doing now. Don't ever stop." He eyed her shrewdly. "Your foot is still bothering you, isn't it?" At her reluctant nod, he pointed to the chair. "Sit," and when she merely stared at him, he added with a roll of his eyes, "please."

She dutifully sat down and he knelt in front of her, sliding the shoe off of her stockinged foot and settling it on his thigh. With firm and gentle strokes, he massaged her foot beginning with the instep before giving his attention to her arch. She sat back and closed her eyes, feeling the tension draining away as she relaxed. "Mm. That feels wonderful," she said, slightly breathless. "Is there anything you can't do well?"

He continued his ministrations, and shrugged one shoulder, not bothering to look up at her. "I can not seem to make my Louise smile anymore."

She opened her eyes, observing his bowed head and put a hand over his, giving it a squeeze. "Look at me," she said quietly. His hands went still and he raised his head, appearing for all the world as if waiting for a blow. She lightly caressed his bony chin. "I may not smile all of the time, but I will always, _always _love you."

He sighed deeply and leaned forward, pressing a kiss on her mouth, her foot nestled between their bodies. He gave it a last pat and reached for her shoe, quickly slipping it on. "Better, yes?" At her nod, he stood up and fetched her coat, helping her into it. "I have some supper laid out for you below. Shall I carry you there?"

"I only hope you are not serious! What do I-" and sputtered to a halt when she caught his gleam of amusement. Louise gave him a look from beneath lowered brows as he held the door open for her. "I should let you. It would serve you right to carry me down all those stairs!"

He set his hat on his head, and out of habit, tugged it down over his eyes. "Do not tempt me! I may just throw you over my shoulder and carry you off to my lair!" to which Louise laughed. How he loved her laughter. Soon, very soon now, he would have her undivided attention. No distractions and nothing for her to do but eat, rest, and love her Erik.

* * *

He was charmed by Maria's home on the Bay of Naples. It was a two story house once a vibrant red, but the hot Neapolitan sun and wind had long ago faded it to a charming rose stucco. Long windows wearing dark green shutters flanked the heavy oak door, and a large lemon tree stood in front of it; in the heat of summer, it would spread its branches over the front of the house, providing not only fruit, but cool shade. Situated in a courtyard surrounded by homes similar to it, bougainvillea vines now dormant, climbed the walls in a tangle up both sides of the door, and would be covered in splashes of scarlet in a few short months. Large empty crocks stood to each side of the entrance, but at the height of summer they would be a burst of color, filled with red geraniums and sky blue plumbago.

The home's back garden, as he would find, was a private courtyard of its own with a high stuccoed wall separating Maria from her neighbors. A row of olive trees stood like sentinels at the back of the garden, and beyond them the brightly colored houses of Naples marched down the hillside to the dazzling blue waters of the bay. In the light of day, Mt. Vesuvius could be seen looming sinister over it as it had for millennia; asleep, but merely napping. They had taken a carriage from the train station, and after carrying her luggage inside and setting it down in the stone flagged entry, he had gone to his own lodgings at the Hotel Bellini before returning to Maria's home for dinner.

The weather was mild for a January evening, and dinner was on the stone terrace just outside the wide doors of the white-washed dining room. He carried dishes of fresh mozzarella and tomato out to the iron table set for two, and Maria followed with the linguine and scallops she had prepared. She directed him to open a bottle of the excellent local wine and he poured them each a glass.

"You have come here at an auspicious time, Nadir. It is unusually mild, even for the Campania region. I am happy that you get to see my city when the weather is kind."

Khan studied the twinkling of lights dotted here and there on the hillside which curved gracefully down to the waters of the bay and thought it a peaceful place. A lovely place. He could learn to like it here. It was exotic and homey at the same time. He glanced over at his dinner companion, whom he considered as having the same characteristics as her homeland. "It is beautiful, Maria. More than I expected, and I can not help but wonder how you found the strength to leave it all behind."

She shrugged and raised her wine glass and took a sip. "Love for my niece, of course. She is very dear to me. When Louise first came here, she was a thin little thing, big eyes shadowed with grief for her mother and father. Even war-torn as it was, leaving her home behind was very difficult," and on further reflection added, "I believe she also missed Erik. More, I think than she ever realized at the time." She took a bite of her salad and thoughtfully regarded him. "You don't really approve of their love for each other, do you?"

He was enjoying the bay scallops which were sweet and tender, but her words surprised him. "It is not for me to say one way or another, Maria." He shrugged. "Erik I can understand. Women have never held him in high esteem before. Of course he adores your niece. But Louise? I find it difficult to understand what she sees to love in him."

Now it was Maria's turn to shrug. "Why must you look for a reason? She alone knows her heart. It is simply there, and I believe she kept her affection alive with the intention of going back to Paris someday to find him."

He didn't mean to scoff, but found he couldn't help it. "Louise was a mere child when she came to you. She had years to forget him." He said ruefully, "I know there have been times I wished _I _could."

Maria smiled slightly. "That's because you are not a young girl whose life was saved from a terrible death. Louise was not a normal fourteen year old. She was aged by events no child should have to endure. Erik came into her life and literally kept her alive for months and it forged a link with him that remained unbroken for years. I have always believed that loyalty to those she loves has always been her greatest asset."

"Forgive me for asking, but...have you any concerns about his suitability for her? His age compared to hers?"

She set her fork down and looked out over her garden, comfortingly familiar to her, cloaked as it was in the indigo shadows of night. It was good to be home. "The heart doesn't count the years, Nadir, and he loves her very much." She brought her gaze back to him. "What else is required?"

"I am certain you have noticed how often he confuses right and wrong. His perceptions, although very acute, are not the same as ours."

She chuckled dryly. "He is unlike anyone I have ever met, but different isn't always such a bad thing. Convincing my niece to search for a man closer to the ideal would be pointless. What exactly is the ideal, my friend?"

It hovered on the tip of his tongue to explain some of the things less than ideal which Erik had accomplished over the years. Murder. Theft. Extortion. Kidnapping. The list went on. He was never certain how much she knew about her niece's fiance, but perhaps it was a little late to say anything at all. And he was more than weary of making Erik the topic of conversation. It was time to allow fate to play out its hand. With a start, he realized Maria was speaking.

"...wallowing in self-pity and grief, and she became a daughter to me. I had lost my husband after a long illness, and I was rudderless. Too much grieving wears out the body's defenses, and she gave me new purpose and life. In return, I gave her a home and my love."

He caught the scents of wild sage and lavender coming from the wide sweep of hillside in front of them, along with the subtle perfume of the woman sitting across from him. "I understand you completely, madame. I had a wife many years ago who was very dear to me. Her name was Parisa," his voice soft. "I know what it is like to grieve for that which you will never have again in this life."

Maria reached a hand across the small table and he grasped her fingers gently. "I wasn't aware of this. Any children?"

He shook his head. "We were married only a short while- not even a year, when she developed a terrible pain in her side. She suffered for many hours with it and finally...left me." He drained the contents of his glass. "I was almost glad at the end. Her agony became mine...it was...very hard to sit and do nothing for her."

"Her appendix ruptured, perhaps," and at his nod, "I am so sorry, Nadir. So very sorry. It never quits hurting, does it? The ache dulls over time, but it is always crouching there, ready to spring at one and remind them of their loss."

"Yes. That is so. That is so." He looked up at Maria, her intelligent brown eyes shining with empathy, and thought it would be nice to share many things with this woman. Good times needn't remain in the past. He could have them again and so could she. They merely had to reach out and take it. "Perhaps you could show me around Naples tomorrow."

She had been studying him as well, and thought she would like nothing better. "Yes! Naples...and Pompeii! Herculaneum. I will show you my country's treasures, Nadir and we will have a wonderful time!"

"Nothing less than that, Maria. And you will be my guest for dinner tomorrow, won't you?"

Louise's words at the train station drifted into her consciousness. "Of course!" she replied, smiling. "I know just the place. You will love their food. Everything is locally grown."

He spied a dimple in one of Maria's cheeks; oddly, he hadn't noticed it before. She was a pretty woman when she smiled like that. He cleared his throat and directed his gaze to the quiet garden. "The weather in Paris must be cold and dreary compared to this. A pity that Louise and Erik can not be enjoying this as well," thinking it fortuitous that they did not, for Erik would only find a way to muck it up.

Her eyes shone with amusement, and his breath caught. "They are probably thankful they are not," she replied lightly. "I am sure they are using the weather as an excuse to curl up together in front of a warm fire."

* * *

The French countryside slid past them as he wearily laid his head back against the seat. His eyes never left her, as she sat beside him lightly dozing. He had removed her coat and hat, tenderly seeing to her every need as they began their journey to upper Normandy; to Rouen, the ancient city of his birth. His one-time home sat on the very edge of the town, with the River Seine flowing past the house at the foot of the garden gate, as it made its slow meandering way from Paris and out to sea.

They had begun dinner in his home the night before, and during the meal of beef ragout and parslied potatoes, he poured Louise a glass of Merlot and sat down in his own chair. Before handing it to her, he issued his last offer. "Come away with me. We can go anywhere you choose and I will take care of you. Please. Leave with me tonight, or...or tomorrow, if you like."

"I can't, Erik. You know that! Why do you persist?"

He shrugged and set the glass of wine in front of her. "Very well. I will say no more," and pushed the wine closer to her hand. "Drink, darling." He went out to the kitchen and brought in their dinner, noting on his return that she had drunk a good portion of it.

She took another mouthful of the Merlot and swirled it around her mouth before swallowing, all the while staring at him with a slightly predatory smile on her face, as though he was a large sugary confection she would simply gobble up. She got to her feet, coming around the table, and without ceremony, squeezed between it and his chair, settling on his lap. She placed both hands on Erik's face, now devoid of the mask, and kissed him with hunger, ravaging his thin mouth as she kept his head pressed hard against the back of the chair. Her hand worked its way into his shirt, pushing aside waistcoat and cravat- the cravat ending up twisted beneath one ear, as she impatiently sought his bare flesh. His hand buried itself in her fragrant hair, knocking pins loose, as desire rose and nearly shoved all other thoughts from his mind. He hissed through his teeth when Louise's mouth closed on his neck, her tongue flicking against the sensitive skin. The little rogue. She would upset everything at the rate she was going. With a fortitude he hadn't known he possessed, he put her reluctantly from him with one last hard kiss, and propelled her back to her chair.

"Uh, uh. Very ingenious! Ply Erik with kisses and get out of eating the nice dinner he prepared just for you." He ran a none too steady hand through his mussed hair and straightened his clothing, thinking it would be wonderful to let her ravage him. He quite liked it. Standing with a ragged sigh, he dished up a gigantic helping of beef ragout and potatoes onto a plate, and set it in front of Sorelli, then sat down and poured wine for himself. Raising his glass, a lustful Louise smiled suggestively when he toasted her. _Behave yourself, my girl, or I will be clearing this table and you will be the main course. _He swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple jumping up and down. "T-To my prima ballerina. May you once again have wings on your feet as you become the soul of the Swan Queen," and he indicated her dinner. "Now eat, for I labored long in the kitchen to prepare it."

She took another sip of her wine and looked in dismay at the loaded plate before her. "My goodness, Erik! You don't expect me to eat all of this do you?" she said in near exasperation. "This is more than I can consume in an entire day!"

He shook out his own napkin and waved a spidery hand in her direction. "Do your best, but be aware that there will be no macarons until you make a fine showing with that," pointing a finger at her heaped plate.

This perked her up as he'd known it would, for Louise had changed little in her greed for sweets; nevertheless, she ate them sparingly, always mindful of her dancer's figure. When she did eat her favorites, that particular confection made of meringue and filled with luscious buttercreams or ganaches, easily made it to the top of her list. He made sure to have them for her in a variety of flavors whenever she came to dinner.

"You are too good to me," she said, regarding him with soft eyes as she forked more potatoes into her mouth, "but then I think that's why I love you so much." She stopped what she was doing; reaching out a hand to him, and he set his wine glass down, threading his pale fingers through hers and clasping them tightly.

Her words made him cringe in shame, for that would surely change when she found out what he had done. He stiffened his resolve and let go of her hand, nodding at her wine glass. "Drink the nice Merlot, darling. It pairs well with the beef."

She did as he bid her, laughing after she drank more of it. She glanced at him from under sooty lashes, and he felt a fine sweat break out on his forehead. She was tempting fate and trying to call forth that nasty little imp that he worked endlessly to keep away from her. He wanted her so badly, and she teased him mercilessly at times, goading him into getting closer and closer to the moment when he could no longer control it.

She had the audacity to wink at him, and it occurred to Erik that this was just a little over the top, even for Louise. The drug beginning to work perhaps? He was in trouble then, for that tiny closing of one eye, held an inordinate amount of meaning. Birdlike, she tipped her head sideways, watching him with bright eyes, appearing just like one of the little wrens found everywhere in Paris. "If I didn't know better I would accuse you of trying to get me drunk," and swayed a little in her chair, nearly spilling her wine in the process. "Ooh, how clumsy of me," when Erik gently took it from her. Elbow on the table, she cupped her chin in one hand and observed him as she began to grow drowsy. "It must be working. I feel slightly light headed at the moment."

He glanced at her sharply, then relaxed. _She means the __wine__, you fool. She know__s__ nothing of your treachery._

"Eat some more, Louise. You need food in your stomach to counteract the alcohol." He glanced at her pale face and drooping eyelids, realizing she wouldn't last much longer before she was sedated and in a trance-like state. Unseen by her, he had poured a measure of amantia muscaria tincture into her watered down wine, just before serving her. He had distilled it from a toadstool whose color was a cheery, white spotted red. It's active ingredient was muscimol, a sedatory with hypnotic affects, allowing those ingesting the drug to remain awake, but in a trance-like state, able to walk, perform small tasks, and in some instances, even answer simple questions put to them.

She obeyed him by eating a little more, then swallowed the rest of the Merlot. "All right, that's all I can manage. A macaron would taste very good now. I do love you, if that helps me any," she added hopefully, and blinked sleepily at him before laying her head on the table, perilously close to her plate of unfinished dinner.

He hadn't planned on her pitching forward into the ragout, and he hastily rose to his feet and gently raised her head, wiping sauce from her hair. "I will give you all the macarons you require, once we reach Rouen, but now it is time for you to sleep," and he led her into the Louis-Philippe room and stood her near the bed, where he bent down and peered into her face. "Trust me, Louise. This is for your own good." He couldn't help but kiss those plump lips once, before turning her around and undoing all the tiny buttons on her bodice. "Why do women's clothing have so many blasted buttons?" he hissed in frustration, and once he undid the last one, he turned her back to face him, and unhooked the corset busk, revealing her white linen chemise. She responded so very, very obediently to his touch. He licked at suddenly dry lips and swallowed hard, beating down the beast inside him, capering to take what he had longed to possess for so long.

He bit savagely on his tongue, tasting blood, and tipped her drooping chin up to meet his gaze. _Louise __trusts me__._ "Listen to me. I want you to put on the nightdress lying on the bed, yes? Can you do that for Erik?" and was gratified when she nodded and turned sluggishly to look for the gown. He groaned at her willingness to do whatever he wished, and turned on rubbery knees. "I-I'll leave you to it then and...and come back in five minutes t-time," his voice breaking in a way it hadn't since he began his journey into manhood all those long years ago. _Louise trusts me. _He took one last longing look at her exposed back and the firm rosy flesh exposed to his starved gaze, and left her to slip into the simple white nightdress.

He didn't go far away, preferring to stay close by, but he went to the sideboard in the dining room and snagged another glass of Merlot before returning to the parlor. He sat down in his chair and closed his eyes, willing his hands to stop shaking, and wishing now that he would have had the foresight to simply put her to bed in her dress. _Louise trusts me. _That he hadn't, only caused the lustful mind pictures to play out behind his lids whenever he closed his eyes. In a slight panic, he snapped them open, but an image of Louise lying on the bed wearing nothing but a sultry smile was still there. "Go to sleep, Louise. I beg you," he whispered.

He wondered not for the first time, how angry she would be when she discovered he had drugged her. Gathering his flagging courage, he rose after ten minutes and went to her room to find her curled up on the counterpane asleep. He scooped her into his arms, pulling the bedclothes down and tucked her into bed. She briefly opened her eyes and drowsily stared at him for a moment before closing them again. He beat a hasty retreat into the parlor where he stood for a full five minutes, his breath coming hard and fast as though he had been running a foot race. Gradually he grew calmer and scrubbed a hand through his hair, standing it on end. He didn't care at all for Louise in this state, her expressive eyes had been cloudy and dull, blankly gazing back at him. He much preferred her mischievous grin when she was teasing him as she often did, or the way she had of looking at him as though he were the only man in the world and the most desired. On leaden feet, he went back into her room and stood beside the bed, pensively watching her sleep, at last leaning over and smoothing the wayward curls off of her face.

"How I love you, my girl," he whispered, "never doubt that," and gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead. Leaving the room, he pulled the door closed quietly and put on hat and cloak for his trip to Sorelli's apartment. He would collect enough clothing to last her a few days and make certain the cat was not trapped inside. A well-placed letter had been written to Estelle to feed it while they were gone. Not for his benefit, of course, he thought snidely. _She _hugged the damned thing far too many times for him to enjoy the little beast's company, but Louise would never forgive him if the cat had to fend for itself. He sniffed through his non-existent nose; as if it hadn't taken good care of itself before she came along.

She would need another dose of the tincture in the early morning hours, and once she was dressed and ready, they would leave for the train station, a suitcase packed with everything needed for a few days. Anything else could be bought in Rouen.

He surfaced now from his musings and glanced out the window of their rail car before tugging the blind shut. He slipped an arm around Louise, pulling her down onto his shoulder and slid one of her eyelids up, satisfied that she was in a light doze. His eyes lovingly roamed her features as his fingers caressed one petal smooth cheek. "I would never harm you. Remember that. Never." He studied her closed lids and the fine bone structure of her face.

"Erik-" It was a breath of sound and was made as she slept lightly.

"Yes, yes, _your _Erik," he replied quietly, his ghastly face complete with transparent nose pressed to his face with spirit gum. He would pay for the privilege later when he peeled it off, bringing skin with it. He rubbed at his eyes, and felt tired enough to rest a little. "You will sleep and eat, and we will talk and read books and go for walks." He tilted his head. "_Moonlight _walks, and I will buy you roses and all the macarons you can hold." He rested his head against hers as the train cut through the early morning fog, and emerged into the bright sunshine of a new day.

* * *

**Next up- You Make Me Sick!**


	39. Chapter 39

He settled her in the home where he was born, bringing her there by buggy in late afternoon of that day. He had given her more of the drug around one, and that would be the last she would need of it. Once she recovered from its effects, they could enjoy each other's company unhindered by the pressures of her commitments. He wasn't fooling himself; he expected her initial reaction to be one of anger and resentment, but he was confident that she would soon appreciate his efforts on her behalf. After all, he did it for her own good, and what's more, he had successfully resisted the powerful urge to simply murder Breda and be done with it. She would understand. _She _always understood her Erik. Didn't she? He told himself that very thing many times since their departure from Paris and he was nearlycertain she would acknowledge his savoir-faire. Unfortunately, there remained just enough doubt to allow a kernel of unease to spoil his confidence in her ultimate forgiveness. Developing a conscience after years of ignoring it was painful indeed.

He followed the weed littered drive around to the back of the house, pulling the buggy to a stop near the kitchen door and alighted. He held his arms out to Louise, who instead, looked up at the half-timbered house where thick ivy covered one side clear to the roof. She glanced back at Erik, her mouth working to form words, her hand sliding down to her stomach which had been unsettled and queasy since leaving the train station.

"I...I...I...f-feel. I-" She stared at him, her eyes widening as she concentrated on the nausea roiling in her stomach. "I a...a...ahh-"

He waggled his fingers at her. "Shh. I know. Let's get you inside and settled. You have had a very long day."

A frown deepened into a little crease between her eyes, her lower lip pooched out. "N...Neh, neh...n-no." She took a deep breath and shook her head slightly, wondering at the feeling of resentment which intruded into her thoughts just by looking at him.

"Come, come. Don't be obstinate. It's cold out here...you will catch a chill if we don't hurry. I'll make you a nice fire. All right?"

"No," the solitary word was sharp and clear in the crisp air, and she was curiously pleased with it. She turned stormy eyes on him and said it again. "No."

"Enough of this, my girl! It is inside for you, so stop being difficult," and took her hands in his. She tugged once on them, and his grip tightened. "No, Louise. Come now," and with a last dull flash of anger, she did as he bid and was soon standing beside him, his hand at her elbow.

"No," she said faintly, and whimpered, hugging her stomach as the nausea grew worse. The electric taste of saliva flooded her mouth, and she swallowed, willing the contents of her stomach to stay put. She closed her eyes tightly and gulped down more air.

"Louise?" Concerned, he bent down and peered into her eyes, his one thought now to get her in the house and into bed. He straightened up, prepared to carry her inside, and sensing his intent, she weakly pushed at him. Erik was having none of it; her pitiful attempt at rebellion had gone far enough, and he firmly held on to her. "Be reasonable. Let's just get-"

"Oh, ohh-" she moaned and clapped a gloved hand over her mouth, knowing the battle was lost. With the unlovely sound of grrk! in Erik's ears, she leaned over and vomited on his shiny, black shoes.

Horrified, he fished out his handkerchief and began to apply it tenderly to her mouth, but she jerked her head away as she continued to retch. He was relieved to see nothing more coming up; it was all on his shoes and splattered on his trouser legs, he thought bleakly. He felt a slight panic when she began to cry. Erik hated it when Louise cried. He held his handkerchief to her mouth and wiped away the strings of drool suspended from her chin. "Now, now, ma chere! It's perfectly all right! No harm done. But that is why we must get you into bed. You will...you will feel more the thing after some tea and a rest," he soothed, trying desperately to ignore the stench of vomitus in the icy air.

She wearily nodded, too tired to fight him anymore, and with a sigh of relief, he bent and scooped her effortlessly into his arms. He unlocked the door, carefully balancing her against his spindly length, and entered the kitchen, slamming the door shut with one foot. He glanced around as he walked to the staircase tucked away in one corner of the room near a large stone fireplace. He navigated the narrow stairs with her, heading for one of the smaller chambers where the bed was to have been made up with clean sheets, and the makings of a fire in the grate ready for the match.

He shouldered the bedchamber door open, the squealing of its hinges a loud protest in the silent house, and carried Louise to the bed, sitting her gently down and removing her coat and hat. She sat quietly, allowing him to do these things for her and when he finished, asked her if she needed the water closet. "For it would seem my sainted mother, prior to her demise, undid the knot in her purse strings and installed facilities on this floor. There is a boiler in the cellar. I will have it fired up in a trice, and you shall have a hot bath very soon." At her tiny nod, he escorted her slowly down the hall and waited patiently outside the door, doing his best to clean off his shoes with his now filthy handkerchief. At last she emerged, looking dully up at him in the wan light, her face pale, and appearing leached of the pink which normally graced her cheeks and lips. He felt shame and unease jockeying for position in his over-crowded mind.

"W-Why..._why_...?" She said haltingly, still struggling to find words in her tangled thoughts.

He reached out a hand and stroked the side of her face, willing the color back into it. "To rest and take your ease. Something of which you have done precious little for far too long. Once you are more yourself, we will have a much needed talk, but for now, you need to sleep a little, I think."

She swayed and leaned against him. "_Where_?"

He lifted her into his arms and began walking back to her room, and was foolishly gratified when she nestled her head into his shoulder. "This is the home of Erik's birth- a less than auspicious place for everyone involved. Now, no more talk." Louise said nothing more, only a little curious as to why he had brought her here of all places. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open, and nausea was again rearing its ugly head. She felt the vague stirrings of anger once more, but the reason for it still eluded her. It was perplexing. She got dutifully into bed and Erik removed her shoes and covered her with the sheet and a thick, blue comforter, carefully tucking the edges around her. He leaned down and brushed hair off her brow with loving fingers and kissed her forehead.

"I'll have it nice and warm in here very soon. Close your eyes," he whispered, and went to the oak and tile fireplace, which, like the rest of the house had seen better days. Many of the rose colored tiles were missing and the black oak of the mantel was pitted and warped. Hopefully, the flue was in good working order.

While she lay there fighting sleep and her queasy stomach, he put a match to the fire laid in the grate and in no time had a nice blaze going. He watched it carefully for draw, and was pleased that his solicitor had seen to the chimney as well. Soon the room would be warmer, if not prettier.

He approached the bed and took one of her hands resting on top of the comforter. Her eyes flew open and she stared up at him as his thumb stroked the ring on her finger. His ring. "Sleep awhile and then we will have some dinner," he said softly, as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. He straightened up and left the room, closing the door gently. She stared at the spot where he had just been and tried hard to remember _why _they were here, and before a minute had gone by, her eyes slid shut and she was asleep.

* * *

The bird sitting in the rowan tree just outside the window woke her, and disoriented, she sat up quickly and stared around the room. The cheery glow of firelight lit the room, and shadows of a tree branch limned one wall. She heard the rustle of dead leaves and a tortured squeaking from just outside the window, where a limb rubbed against the ancient wood of the house.

She decided it must be near dawn, judging by the gray light seeping through the curtained window near her bed. She lay there quietly, a slight headache centered between her eyes. She tested herself for nausea, and felt only a slight queasiness present, and was gratified when her stomach growled. Not sick then, only hungry. Her mind felt clearer than it had in what seemed days. Days? Surely not. Had she been ill? The edges of her consciousness were still fuzzy, and she had a moment of panic when she couldn't remember very much of the past two days. It was as though a thief had slipped into her mind and stolen her memory, leaving nothing but gaps and half recollections.

She remembered waking at some point during the night and looking through slitted eyes at an unmasked Erik sitting beside her bed. He was holding tightly to her hand and talking quietly to himself, his thumb grazing her knuckles again and again, always returning to her ring. She had glanced around the room disconcerted for a moment, thinking it was her bed at home. Seeing her confusion, he spoke softly to her and squeezed her hand; before many minutes had gone by, she had slipped back into sleep.

Thinking of it now, led to more befuddlement as her faulty memory recalled scattered moments before they had come to this place. Unbidden, anger leaped into her thoughts, the bitterness of it tasting metallic and hard edged. She couldn't remember much of anything, except Erik cradling her close as they sat in a carriage going... No. Not a carriage, recalling the rocking motion and the clacking of the rails, the scenery slipping by much faster than could be achieved by horse and carriage. A train. They had been on a train, and his soothing voice was once again in her ear, talking about...about... _What_ had he been saying? She searched her memory, trying to remember what he had said. Not to her. No. It was more of a conversation like those he often had in the past. Before he found someone who could love him. Conversations between Erik and...well, Erik.

_ 'She won't be angry... long. Of course... a little upset with you...__drug...__ but __amantia... quite mild. ...after-__e__ffects and easy to...' _

She sat up in bed and clapped a hand over her mouth, staring around the small decrepit room- stared at the narrow four poster bed she lay upon, its carved mahogany balls at every corner save one, where it had separated from the post and rolled into a dusty corner. She ran a hand over the sheets which were clean and crisp, and bounced once on the lumpy mattress, listening to the squeal of the bed frame whenever she moved. She stared at the tattered arm chair snugged up to it, its blue velvet nap worn smooth and shiny. Her unbelieving gaze traveled to the claw footed divan, ponderous and dark with age, squatting beneath one window, before moving on to walls papered in a tiny blue and gray floral pattern, badly faded and sprung in some sections. The beamed ceiling was high above her head, and probably thick with cobwebs. The bare, leaded windows to the left of the bed were diamond-pane, the glass rippled and distorted, but the panes were clean of dirt; someone had attempted to make the room more livable. Her eyes roamed around the chamber as her mind pieced together what her _loving _man had done to her. It all clicked into place, and a cold rage began to blossom and grow. "Why, you...you _scoundrel__,_" she hissed.

Louise moved gingerly to the edge of the mattress, and carefully swung her legs over the side, bracing herself against the bed. She stood up, sighing in relief when her legs supported her with no trouble- a little weak, but otherwise fine. She looked down at her wrinkled and stained dress and a sound of disgust slipped out. Walking slowly to the door, she opened it and peeked out into the wide hallway. Moving as quietly as possible, she went to the small chamber she had visited yesterday, and emptied her full bladder before making use of the soap and towels set out. Cleaning her mouth with the tooth powder provided, she felt much more herself, except for the rat's nest her hair had become. She finger combed some of the snarls out, before giving up in frustration and left the room, wincing at the creaking and popping of the worn floorboards in the hallway. In the stillness of the house, they sounded loud as a gunshot, and she glanced furtively to her right, spying a set of stairs disappearing into the gloom. With a last look down them, she scampered to her room where she began searching for a change of clothes. She turned around upon hearing a slight noise at the door, and watched sullenly as Erik maneuvered through it with a loaded tray.

"Good morning, ma mie! I thought I heard you up and about! How are you feeling?" his voice as warm as the eyes now observing her.

She stared impassively back, illogically resenting him for looking none the worse for wear- unlike her grubby self.

"I have some things here to help relieve any ill-effects you may have from yesterday. Headache powders and chamomile tea to begin with, then something a little more solid." He set the tray on the bedside table and lit the paraffin lamp. Light spread its yellow fingers into the room, chasing the shadows back to their respective corners and revealing more of the small chamber. "It will rain soon, I think- perhaps even snow. The wind is picking up." He poured a cup of tea and motioned for her to take a seat. "Just the way you like it," he said with an uncharacteristic smile- which she interpreted as being decidedly smug.

"As though I would be foolish enough to put anything _you _give me into my mouth," she said snidely, not sure whether to grab her aching head or empty stomach.

"I would imagine some food will do wonders for you," he said anxiously, the grin snuffed out as though it had never been. "How about some breakfast? I am afraid it will have to be on the light side for now, until your stomach settles. Toast with jam...and the... tea."

Not knowing what else to do, she perched on the very edge of the mattress observing his movements as he spread some jam on the toast, all the while talking what amounted to an interminable stream of words from the usually taciturn man. She managed to work in a sentence when he stopped for air. "Did you also pack clean undergarments for me when you planned all of this?"

He paused in the act of arranging triangles of toast on a plate, and decided to ignore the question. "Eat something first, Louise, and then you may change your dress," and held out the plate to her.

She merely stared at it as though he was handing her something rotten, and with a cry, knocked it out of his hand, not moving at all when it hit the floor and shattered, a piece of toast skittering away and ending up on the hearth. He stared at her as though she had taken leave of her senses, his hand still held out, only now it was extended in entreaty. She looked at it, the fingers preternaturally long and pale, and at the moment, anything but steady, before her infuriated gaze traveled up to the man who had once again tossed reason and decency out the window.

"Why?" she asked him, striving for a calm she didn't feel.

He cocked his head at her, knowing this moment was coming, but deploring it just the same. "Because you needed to get away from the theatre for a while, and you wouldn't listen to me." He knelt on the floor and began picking up the pieces of crockery.

"Couldn't you simply ask? Why do you always believe you know what is best for me? Why?"

"I _did _ask you. Several times, in fact, and your answer was always no," he threw over his shoulder, and cursed when a shard of china bit into his thumb. "I certainly didn't see that changing anytime soon, and you were close to exhaustion, even if you couldn't see it for yourself. Breda merely exacerbated the problem," he retorted, as he applied a clean handkerchief to his cut finger.

"Top position in a ballet company does not come without its own price and you know it! You have just caused me to lose my position in Swan Lake! I was hoping to use it to jump into mistress of ballet, Erik. I enjoyed that very much and hoped someday I could...never mind! In all likelihood, that won't happen now. How can they trust someone who leaves on a whim?"

"Of course you would make a fine ballet mistress! I am very cognizant of that fact, Louise," he said indignantly. "You cannot keep dancing forever, and that is why-"

"Oh, I thank you so very much for shuffling me off to the boneyard as though I couldn't manage a fouette jete any longer!"

"You may dance until you are ninety if you wish!" he shot back. "But you won't admit how exhausted you have become, and not only because of that bastard's penchant for spite." He forcibly calmed himself down, wanting to make it right between them. It hurt too much when she was angry with him. "You took very good care of me when I was ill, and that was exhausting in itself. Can't you simply accept this as a holiday from your cares? You must believe me when I say your position is secure when you return to Paris." He sat back on his heels and looked at her beseechingly. "You do believe me...don't you, Louise?"

Suspicion lanced through her at his words, and she stared at him in dismay. "What did you do? Tell me the truth right this minute while I am still speaking to you!"

He wearily shook his head, his marvelous idea of getting her all to himself, blowing up in his face. "At least have some tea," he said gruffly.

"You first," and folded her arms across her chest, staring hard-eyed at him.

"Very well," he sighed, and picked up the cup. He took a large swallow then looked at her for approval, but with a flick of her finger at the cup, he drained it and hazarded a glance her way. "There! Satisfied?"

"I suppose so," she grudgingly replied. He poured her a fresh cup and handed it to her. "I hope you have no further plans where the plates are concerned. We only have a few of everything."

"Oh, is that all? Not enough for a stay of weeks?" she said meanly.

"I have no intention of keeping you here past a few days." He snorted. "Unless we begin to have a wonderful time," he said morosely, not at all hopeful of that happening.

"Hardly," she confirmed, "for you have taken leave of your senses," to which he wisely said nothing. "Now. _Where_ were we? You'll have to forgive me...my memory is a little spotty from the past two days," she said caustically. "What else have you done, Erik?" and picked up her tea, taking a cautious sip.

He dumped the broken plate in the fireplace and turned to her."You haven't lost your position, if that is what you mean. At this very moment your ballet master is staying very close to a water closet...at least for the next few days. I would hazard a guess he won't be chasing any dancers for a relatively long time, even after we return to Paris."

"What. did. you. do?" She glared at him, wondering why she had aligned herself with a madman.

"Breda always has a bottle of Burgundy on his desk. And he always has a drink," he shrugged, "or two after rehearsal is done. Know thy enemy, my girl," and she rolled her eyes at this. "I simply added a healthy dose of a few of the purgatives readily available, such as senna and aloe to his daily wine, but the piece de resistance I found in the market some time ago. It came straight from America, Louise, and was touted as being able to stop a buffalo in its tracks- or so I was told. Cascara sagrada, or sacred bark as the Plains Indians call it. Works in the same way as any physic, only much, much stronger. Quite fitting for that piece of merde, wouldn't you say?"

She couldn't fail to see the gleam of malicious amusement in those yellow eyes and her anger climbed higher. "Oh! Why, you conniver! You have been quite busy dispensing your...your _potions_, haven't you? I knew you couldn't resist harming Breda. Any more than you could resist poisoning me!"

"I did not _poison_ you!" he replied, deeply offended. "How absurd. It was a sedative, that is all. And as for that gonad driven lothario, that is exactly what I did not do. I thought you meant harm as in _dead. W_hich, I assure you, he is not," and he scratched at his chin, "although he may be wishing he was by now."

"You are always able to justify your more questionable acts to your own satisfaction, then expect me to accept them as well. You schemed against me! How can you stand there and pretend you did this for my own good?"

"You are perfectly fine now, are you not? And once Breda is done trotting back and forth so very punctually, he will no doubt be conducting himself as a perfect gentleman around the rats. More importantly, he will treat you with the respect you deserve."

Hearing the contentment in his voice, she looked sharply at him. "I wouldn't mind a little of that from you!" and when he opened his mouth to reply, she put up a hand. "No. Just tell me what else you have done," she said wearily as she drank more of the tea. It tasted wonderful.

He held out a slice of toast and nodded at it. "Eat something and I will tell you."

She accepted it with ill-grace and took a bite. Well, she _was _hungry, and soon had the slice gone. He handed her another and refilled her tea cup, then sat down in his chair, crossing his legs.

"I have merely informed Breda that his harassment of you must stop, or he will have great cause to regret it. The deplorable practice of pursuing a certain prima ballerina through threats of losing her position, will also be revealed to management if he doesn't curtail his activities. And if that does not suffice, I intend to remove a sum of money from the manager's safe and plant it in Breda's office for Richard and Moncharmin to find.

"As of now, he has a letter from a _concerned_ subscriber who heard rumors floating about. Nasty ones, I might add. And Monsieur Subscriber will make sure Breda is exposed if he continues in this manner. My name isn't signed on that letter, but I am quite certain he will know the author, coupled with the fact that _you_ have suddenly disappeared. It should have him doing the simple math and coming up with the correct answer- one and one equals Louise and Erik," he said quietly. "He simply cannot prove it," the martial light in his eyes softened as he looked at her, "but who else would have La Sorelli's best interests at heart than the man who loves her? Breda may consider this a formal declaration of war if he doesn't leave you alone. More than enough, I think, to have him glancing nervously over his shoulder if he doesn't comply." He said this with a certain amount of pride, and it goaded Louise beyond endurance.

"Why, you have thought of everything, haven't you? Even theft, if Breda needs a little more help in his decision to behave. By the way, no one would think Vincente intelligent enough to pilfer a locked safe!"

"Simply because you think it? How many believe in magic? The mind may well refuse what it sees, but the proof is before one's eyes and must be real." He shook his head in disgust. "You will castigate me for my treachery and allow Breda his? You wound me, Louise! No funds have been removed from the safe as of yet, and the only real harm so far, has been your ballet master's frequent need to excuse himself when...uh, nature calls. He wil be very busy with his malady in the next few days, for he will not consider the wine to be his source of discomfort, and will only end up drinking more of it." His thin mouth quirked in cold amusement, and suddenly Louise found herself face to face with the opera ghost once again. "He may consider _that as _a warning, but I am quite certain Swan Lake will be awaiting you when we return."

She felt a shiver crawl up her spine at his conniving, but her anger at his perfidy won the day. "So now we can add fraud and deception to your growing list of misdeeds, can't we?" She looked at him with bitter disappointment. "The worst for me, I think, is your mistreatment of the woman you profess to love," and ignored his wounded look. "Let's see... Kidnapping, which you are so very good at since you have had so much practice performing it, and you drugged me as well; something else in which you are adept." She leveled a disturbing look at him. "You put an unnatural substance in my body and stole my mind away, for I remember very little of the past two days," she whispered. "Are you happy now that you got your way? You have me all to yourself, yet you made me vomit all over your shoes! I'm so thankful that you saved me from the stage...I feel ever so much better now! You brought me to a place I have never been, and expect me to be grateful to you for the privilege. You are having another of your breaks from reality then, because I am _not _grateful, and I resent you tremendously for what you have done!" She stood up and moved from the bed. "I'm going home as soon as I can leave this dreary place, and don't you dare try to stop me!"

"You are not going anywhere, my dear," and when she opened her mouth to reply, he merely pointed to the window. "Hear it? That's sleet hitting the side of the house. We aren't far from the train station, but getting there could be treacherous." He eyed her warily. "And I won't allow it. Enjoy your time here, and stop being so stubborn."

She did indeed hear the wind and pellets of ice tapping against the house. The light at the windows instead of lightening with the approach of day, had darkened until it appeared to be night once again. She regarded the glow of his amber eyes in the dim room and sighed in defeat. "Very well. Until this storm is over, I suppose I am trapped here with you."

"Eat the rest of your breakfast then," he said, rising to his feet. "I'll remove my presence so you may enjoy it."

"Yes, you do that."

He paused at the door, not certain what he wanted to say. _Forgive me for deceiving you? For allowing my love for you to govern my thoughts and actions? "_Once again I ask for your forgiveness, Louise. I only meant well."

She said nothing more, but gave him a cold shoulder until he closed the door, then forlornly sank back down on the bed and picked up another piece of toast. She took a bite, working to swallow the chunk before it choked her. Silently, the tears came, wondering miserably why they kept hurting each other- and supposedly, all in the name of love. She swiped a hand across her brimming eyes and runny nose. What would happen once they returned to Paris, she wouldn't think about now. First things first- clean clothes. She had every intention of getting to her feet and searching for fresh underthings, but tiredly she scooted back onto the bed and laid down again, curling up on her side. She would rest a while before getting dressed and yawned tiredly, fisting a hand beneath her cheek. Her lids feeling weighted down, she gratefully closed her eyes and slept well into late afternoon as the storm outside her window strengthened.

* * *

She came awake to a cool hand on her brow. She raised her head and peered around the room. She was once again snugly wrapped in the blue comforter, the fire in the grate burning nicely. "Feeling better?" he asked her softly as he hovered solicitously over her.

At any other time, that loving tone he used with her alone, in the seductive voice she adored, would have had the power to melt her resistance, but her anger was still very much alive. Abruptly, she responded, "What time is it?"

"Just past five. When you are ready, I made some dinner for you."

"I'm not very hungry," she said stiffly, as she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I'm afraid of what else I might be ingesting, to tell the truth." It was a low blow, but she wasn't feeling cheery, by any means.

"You have nothing to worry about," he said reassuringly. "I won't be doing that again, and furthermore, I'll not force you to endure my presence any longer than is necessary. You are free to go anywhere you like in this house, but if you wish it, you can remain in your room. After all, you are here to rest and do something other than dance- unless that includes dancing with me," he said with a shy smile which died as he observed her grim face. "But I would hope...I hope you will allow me to spend it with you. We...we can read together and perhaps once the weather moderates a bit, take a walk. You would like that...wouldn't you, Louise?"

He had begun wringing his hands, those graceful fingers fluttering and moving about like so many startled birds with no place to alight. The sight chipped away at her resolve to punish him, but in the next instant, she hardened her heart. "Why did you bring me here, Erik? I thought you despised this place?"

"I despised it a lot less than watching you wear yourself down to nothing. This was the only place I could think to bring you on relatively short notice, where you wouldn't call for the local gendarmerie to come and take your poor Erik away."

"So you admit that you were wrong in taking me forcibly in the way that you did?"

He shook his head impatiently. "Only because you would not listen to reason." He observed her impassive face, and stood up, his shoulders bowed as if under a heavy load, his mouth grimmer than usual. "I'll bring you a tray in a little while. Anything else?"

"A brush or comb would be helpful."

"In the valise over there," he replied, pointing to a satchel on the divan.

She nodded, feeling the pain of the chilly politeness descending on them, but she couldn't get beyond it just yet. She didn't know if she ever would. If Erik was so content with his controlling nature _before _they were wed, what would he be like afterward? She was now having doubts about their future together, and it hurt her terribly to feel this way.

She had a leisurely bath, the warm water soothing to her tired body and troubled spirit. She dressed quickly and brushed the snarls out of her hair, plaiting it in one long braid, and instead of remaining in her room, she decided to do a little exploring. Erik had told her she may go anywhere in the house, so she took the lamp from her room and set off to the left and down the hall. She peeked into three more rooms, one obviously a study or library at one time, for there were shelves on three of the walls, and interestingly enough, a few old mildew ridden books, their spines broken and cracked with age. Just like everything else in the house, she thought drearily. Filing the knowledge away until later, she continued down the hall to the casement window at the very end.

She looked out upon a wintry January evening complete with ice and some snowflakes mixed in. She could just make out in the near dark, an overgrown garden which would be nice in the warmer weather. It only needed a loving and enthusiastic hand to bring it back to its former glory. She spied a weedy path snaking its way down to the Seine, its brown waters flowing swiftly by, and a dilapidated structure sitting above it on the muddy riverbank. From this distance she couldn't tell for certain what it was, but it appeared to be a little gazebo. It would be a lovely place to sit and watch the river traffic, or would once its collapsed roof was replaced. Closer to the house she spied a stone barn, no doubt where the horse was now stabled. She turned from the window and saw to her right a staircase which disappeared into the darkness above, and to the right of that, another set of stairs going down.

Not wanting to see her host and erstwhile kidnapper, she decided to go higher.

It was a very old house, probably dating to the seventeenth century, and showed very well the English influence in Normandy. She glanced down the stairs wondering if Erik was waiting for her to have dinner. She set a foot on the upper riser, intending to see what was up there before going back to her room. Dark had long since established itself, and she was comforted by the light she held. The stairs creaked in the way of all old houses, and she was glad when she finally reached the top step. Another short hallway with two rooms opposite each other was revealed in the steady glow of her lamp. She opened the door on the right, and a jumble of sinister shapes met her eyes, soon separating into objects, large and small, swathed in dust covers. She took one last look, quietly closing the door, and turned the knob on the remaining door, wincing at the rasp of its rusted hinges. She saw a tiny room with bare plastered walls and a scarred oak floor which wasn't quite level. What caused a moment's disquiet was the feeling of loneliness and despair that came over her as she viewed the mean little room. The only furniture in it was a narrow iron cot holding a moldering mattress. She pushed the door open wider with one finger and stepped inside. It was as spartan as a room could get, and when she saw the crude soldiers made from clothes pins lying scattered on the wood floor, she felt a sadness begin to grow in her. Her hunch was proved correct, when she found letters carved in the wooden frame of the window. She held the light closer.

_I AM ERIK. ERIK AM I. SINFUL. SHAMEFUL. __SORDID._

She leaned her head against the casement and squeezed her eyes shut. Listening closely, she heard the keening of the wind this high up and the tormented voices within. At one time, it would have sounded very similar to the room's sole occupant; lost as he was within his own vivid imagination, and the confines of his barren world. He had told her his childhood was one of little comfort and no joy. Isolated from his parents and kept alone with barely any contact. No love, no laughter or compassion in his life. Just this empty room where he made his own playthings from scrounged wood. If that wasn't bad enough, he had been blamed for his father's death, then forced from his home like an abandoned dog to make his own way in the world.

She abruptly pushed from the window, disgusted with people she had never known and were long gone, despising them with a stony hatred for not loving him when he needed them the most. With a flash of insight, she realized _why _he had to control everything and everyone around him- he'd had so very little of it when he was a child and at his most impressionable. The lessons of his youth had clung tightly to him and had helped to define who he had become.

She flung her arms wide and invited that lost little boy into her heart where he would have a home, the same as the grown man.

Not that she was going to forgive him _too _soon for his transgressions against her; regardless of his reasons for them, they were misguided. She was still angry with him for taking it upon himself to drug and kidnap her. She had been treated with disrespect by the man she was going to marry soon; taken from her home and livelihood, made ill because of the substance he gave her, and confused inside her own mind for a time. He had practiced criminal activities on his own fiancee, and she had no wish to see it perpetrated on his wife. Erik St. Clair would have to learn that women could and did manage their own affairs without help. But in spite of her anger, she felt a powerful wave of love and longing for him, and at last started to think that their little interlude in Rouen might be a good thing after all. But first, he had an important lesson to learn. She heard a step in the hall and looked up to find him standing there, his yellow eyes shining like beacons.

"Louise? What are you doing up here?"

"Communing with a ghost."


	40. Chapter 40

He leaned against the door jamb and glanced about the room in grim bemusement. "And what does this ghost say?"

"I am Erik."

"Ah."

"This was your room."

"Yes, it was."

His voice so tightly controlled, did little to mask the bleakness of his eyes, and she had taken a step toward him before catching herself. "I hate what they did to you," she said quietly.

"So do I, but it doesn't really matter anymore. Come and have some dinner with me. You must be hungry."

She nodded as she joined him in the doorway. "Yes, I'm hungry, but I won't be dining with you."

"And why not?"

"Because I don't wish to do so at this time. I have some thinking to do, and you will only be in the way."

"And what requires such deep thought?"

"You and I," she said softly.

"I was not aware _we _are open for discussion," he replied, bland as milk.

"We need to examine your current attitude toward me. It is unacceptable."

"I am afraid I don't understand," his unease growing. "I love you and you are to be my wife. What more is there?"

"You know it is more than that. You took me away against my will, Erik. Should I thank you for that?"

"I asked you numerous times to come away with me and you refused!" he said defensively. "What was I to do, Louise?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps honor my decision? As I would yours?" She moved to go past him and he reached out a hand, which she ignored. "I thought coming back to Paris was my ultimate destiny. I may have been wrong about that."

Erik shook his head. "You weren't so very wrong, my girl," looking at her with fearsome eyes now soft and tender. "_I _am your destiny."

"Are you?"

"Yes," he said firmly and unequivocally. "Yes, and yes again. You love me. I don't know _how _it is possible, but you do. Do not try to deny it."

"I don't deny it," she said evenly, steeling herself against the flare of joy in his eyes.

How could she ignore her own feelings where he was concerned? Aside from his recent deplorable behavior, she had always loved how his eyes lit up with enthusiasm when something sparked his intellect. She adored those clever, clever hands that could twist notes into the most beguiling of sounds, and how those very same hands could lead her to desire nothing more than his arms around her. She loved how his body, so very thin and gaunt, could move with the utmost grace and purpose. How his often grim mouth could soften in welcome when she entered a room; how that very same mouth could mold itself to hers, and make her want nothing more than him...everything else falling away and becoming insignificant.

Louise felt all of those things- including rage.

His underhandedness concerning her welfare had left her badly shaken. She sighed raggedly, unsure how to proceed. Kill him...or kiss him? She looked impassively at Erik, hiding the welter of emotions she was feeling at that very moment.

"I don't deny it," she repeated, "but my love for you doesn't change your appalling behavior toward me."

He regarded her despondently. Another meal alone. "I regret my actions more than I can say, which does us little good, I know. I have no power to call them back. But...very well. Dinner in your room, since Erik can only disturb you. If you like, you may eat downstairs in the kitchen. You needn't hide in your room. He won't bother you while you _ruminate_."

His remorse was not for his actions, she knew. He merely regretted her reception to them. "Thank you, but no. The bedchamber will be fine. And don't worry, _Louise_ can get her own dinner."

He eyed her warily. "Not at all. I insist. I forced you here."

She raised her chin. "Yes, you did."

"How long do you intend to take as you reconsider our... relationship?"

"I have no idea."

"I better fetch you some nourishment to help it along then." He shrugged. "Whether you remain in your room or grace me with your company downstairs is immaterial. You are mine regardless," and she said nothing to that. It would have been useless. He looked as though he was going to say more along those lines, but instead, "One can't make good decisions on an empty stomach- although I never had any trouble doing so."

Louise couldn't stop an irritated snort of disbelief. "I beg you not to tell me then that this was one of them! I have been exhorting you all along to eat more. A grown man needs to consume more than a bird and this is my proof! Perhaps on a full stomach you would have reconsidered reducing me to no more than an empty headed doll!"

His eyes had narrowed dangerously, but he ignored her outburst. "You will be a busy woman while you _think_ about me and my place in your life. Allow me to leave you to it!" and strode past her and down the backstairs to the kitchen.

She stared at the name carved into the window frame. "Your place is always with me, you foolish man," she said tartly, "but with certain restrictions," and left the room.

* * *

For two days she kept mostly to her bedchamber, rarely seeing Erik, and only when he brought her meals. The weather had changed from sleet to all snow, burying the world in white. It was unusual weather for Normandy; only rarely did they get significant snowfall, and the irony of it wasn't lost on him. At last providence had seemed to be smiling upon him, but had instead snatched it away from his grasping fingers, for the trains weren't running on a regular schedule, if at all. She was exactly where he wanted her to be, but it may as well have been the far side of the world for as much good as it did him. His advantage in having Louise all to himself, slowly faded away, as that first interminably long day ended with her remaining in her room and saying very little to him when he brought her meals or tended to the fireplace. That she was deeply upset with him, was finally starting to sink in, and for the first time in his life he thought he understood why. He had forced her into relinquishing control to him- she was having none of it.

While he moved about the house like a wraith, he occupied his time with the mundane; keeping the house warm, caring for the carriage horse stabled in the little barn, and fixing simple meals from the supply of food he purchased upon their arrival. He also began to look reluctantly inward- something of which he did very little. There was too much blood and mayhem in his recollections, and soul-searching was not a pleasurable activity for one who had made his way through life by threats and coercion. He didn't like what he was finding out about himself, and to shut out the guilt which followed, he obstinately turned his mind to music, always his refuge in the past. He played whole movements in his head as he conducted a phantom orchestra, refusing to acknowledge what his conscience was trying to tell him. He would successfully drown the chorus of accusations, only to have them resurface once again, and shame would make inroads to his arguments that he had acted in Louise's best interests.

Those were the times he retreated inside his head and stood at the podium before the Garnier's seventy-five musicians. Posture rigid and arms raised, the conductor's baton was held delicately poised in his right hand, wielded with the skill of an artist- music, his canvas of choice. His eyes keenly observed every section, ready to convey with his body, the control and dynamic he wished them to achieve under his aegis. With the downbeat, the orchestra commenced, music sparking from his very fingertips. It was a ballet; Swan Lake to be exact- no surprise there, and he adjusted the moderato tempo to the dancers' movements across the stage. The prima ballerina's presence in the guise of the Swan Queen, was kept faceless as he traced the beat in the air with his right hand, but all too soon Odette's face melted into Louise's. He leaned his thin body into the melody, becoming one with it. His stance changed, as did the movements of his hands as they measured the beats per minute to one-twenty, and the tempo increased exponentially to allegretto. He cued the strings of his ghostly orchestra, the smoothly flowing notes matching her incomparable beauty upon the stage. He sighed. A swan indeed. _His _swan.

He would then mentally shake himself, the music going silent, and his thoughts centered around her once more. It was exhausting to think of someone else's needs and put them first. He forced himself to wait patiently for her to forgive him; he sorely missed their easy camaraderie, missed her arms holding him close in a cocoon of security. Her kisses. He wanted more of it. He would die from lack of it.

Louise, meantime, did something she had rarely done before. Nothing. Sleeping when she wanted, reading whenever the urge took her- she simply rested. She would watch with interest when Erik tapped once on the door, and shouldered his way through with her meals. She would nod coolly, and eye him as he shifted from one foot to the other, wanting a word from her. _Any_ word. Miserably, he waited for something she wasn't about to give, and finally turned away in defeat.

She would be lying to herself if she didn't admit to a certain grim satisfaction giving him her cold shoulder. She was by nature, a warm-hearted individual and more than ready to give Erik all of the love he had been denied. Or would, once she got over her considerable anger at his duplicity. He would enter the room, wearing a mournful air along with the mask which was once again firmly in place. Hiding behind it, no doubt.

"Why are you wearing it?" she asked abruptly, waving a finger in his direction as he placed her lunch on the small table. "There is no one here except you and me. Take it off and stop being so stubborn."

He appeared startled by her voice. It had been hours since he heard it; Louise last spoke with him early that morning. Two words- _thank you. _No wonder he was beside himself with pleasure that she had finally broken her silence and spoken a whole sentence, but he bristled at her calling _him _stubborn. She was the stubborn one. Refusing to speak to him and ignoring his attempts at a rapprochement- he was absolutely miserable and she didn't care.

"I was hiding my face long before you were born," and he reflexively hunched his narrow shoulders. "Perhaps my greatest fear is that you might suddenly come to your senses." He flicked a finger at the black silk. "This would accomplish it, I daresay."

"Your face has nothing to do with your treatment of me and you know it!" Her frustration at his obstinacy took center stage again. "I much prefer your face to that scrap of cloth. I thought I had already made that perfectly clear to you."

"Yes, of course. In light of my noble features, I can well understand why," his mellifluous voice gloomy. "Who wouldn't want to view it while eating? Which begs the question- why won't _you_ dine with me? Excuse me for my insecurities concerning it, won't you, darling?" He tilted his head and studied her closely. "That is, if I am still permitted to address you as such?"

She eyed him warily as faint color rose in her cheeks. "I suppose."

He sketched a stiff bow in her direction, one hand splayed over his heart. "Many thanks, my dear," but she had already turned away and begun reading again, treating him as no more than a life sized statue in the room and of no consequence at all.

Dropping the posturing, he suddenly blurted out, his voice cracking with emotion, "Louise!"

She glanced up from her novel with a look of polite inquiry. "Yes, Erik?"

He was weary of her cold distance from him when all he wanted was her tender regard. He had no wish to eat another meal alone. Spend another _minute_ alone. Spend one second more without her in his arms. "Have dinner with me this evening?" His look was one of abandonment, as though it was her cruelty keeping them apart. He had allowed a tiny bit of hope to show in his eyes as he waited for her answer.

She put down her book and stretched. His gaze traveled over her lithe form, wishing he had the courage to simply walk over and pull her into his embrace. He wanted a kiss- _needed_ it. A woeful sigh slipped out before he could stop it. "Aren't you even a little lonely? As uncomfortable as I make you, my presence is surely better than nothing!"

Louise poured herself a cup of tea, noting the extra cup and saucer on the tray. _Tea for two? _She appeared to seriously consider his question."Why? Are _you_ lonely, Erik?" she asked innocently.

His frustration mounting, he replied harshly, "Only for y_our _company, Louise. I don't think I need to tell you that!"

"But I am resting just as you wanted me to do," she said sweetly, and took a sip of her tea. "Isn't that why you planned this...this _holiday _away from my commitments?"

"I am perfectly aware of what you are doing," he said morosely. "You are punishing me." He ran a fretful hand through his hair. "Have at it then, but you could just as well ignore me sitting at the same table." His hope for a reconciliation was dying an ignoble and swift death.

"Yes. I suppose I could," she said mildly, and took a bite of bread, chewing slowly, Erik hanging on her words as she appeared to seriously consider his proposal, "but I won't," and his mouth tightened into a grim slash. She was surprised he wasn't gnashing his teeth. Her smile was chilly. "I prefer it here," and turned from him, cold shoulder firmly back in place.

With a growl, he stalked from the room, making certain to slam the door on his way out.

* * *

It all came to a head the next evening, when the temperature dipped well below freezing, and the winter wind whistled and moaned around the weathered eaves just outside her window. She had just returned from a warm bath, and dressed herself in a skirt and blouse, deciding to leave off her corset and all but one petticoat. After all, she reasoned, it was only the two of them, and it was so very comfortable without it. These days had proved one thing to her- it was liberating to do whatever she pleased. She had her wayward man to thank for that. She sat cross-legged in front of the hearth to dry her hair. The heat felt soothing, and her eyes closed as the warmth caressed her face.

"The only thing missing from this pretty picture is me beside you." He nodded at the brush in her hand. "I can do that, if you like."

Her eyes flew open in surprise, her brows drawing together in a frown, as she looked at Erik standing just inside the door. "I'm afraid I didn't hear you knock."

"That's because I didn't."

"Oh? Manners are getting in the way now? More schemes to make me _obey_ you?"

He sent her an enigmatic look and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. "That is neither here nor there, Louise. You are speaking nonsense and you well know it."

"Oh, nonsense, is it?" She looked pointedly around her, then back at her erstwhile host. "Then how did I come to this place with very little recollection of it?"

He came further into the room, Sorelli watching him guardedly. "I have already explained why, but you choose not to believe me. It is more than time for you to put aside your anger. Wouldn't you agree? You are looking more yourself and I have given you the privacy you required."

He stopped just short of the fireplace and pensively regarded her. He had finally decided to try and end this impasse. Perhaps a quick and brutal frontal assault was preferable- subtlety hadn't worked. Louise was enjoying herself only too well without him, as his eyes raked her from head to toe. Her hair was nearly to her waist, a glorious fall of shimmering brown, with just that hint of fire that he so loved. He wanted to run his fingers through it- bury his miserable face in it.

"This has to end now, Louise. You have punished your Erik enough. And why? Because he loves you and wants to take care of you. _That _is his crime. You are heartless!"

He stood with hands on narrow hips, legs spread apart in a firm stance; master of his domain, or at least thinking it was so. He was dressed casually- for him. Workman's trousers, a linen shirt, plain cravat and moleskin vest, his shirtsleeves rolled back revealing thin, wiry arms wrapped with lean muscle, the impressive strength in them so deceptively hidden. She had been studying him from beneath her lashes as she sat on the floor, but at this, Sorelli was on her feet in no time.

"You dare to call _me _heartless? Your so-called _crime _is much more than that! A gentle and caring man does not drug the woman he professes to love, into some mindless automaton and lead her willy-nilly from her home! How dare you simplify this into nothing more than your love for me! I would call it something else."

"You would call it evil, I know."

"Evil? No, I would not, but manipulation, yes, yes I would call it that!" she cried, frustrated with this infuriating man who seemed to always bend the rules to suit himself, and exhibited dangerous behavior, oftentimes directed at her. In that one moment, she felt utterly sorry for herself, that of all the men in the world, she had bound herself to this one. Would that she could simply walk away from him and start over somewhere else. Find a kind and decent man who would treat her gently for all of her days. She looked up at Erik, her deformed and sometimes delusional man, and knew beyond a doubt that he did indeed love her.

And she loved him- as unconventional as he might be, that would never change. He was her reality, and she would abide no other.

Yet, she felt a weariness creeping over her. At the moment, that tenderest of emotions was more burden than blessing, and conspicuously absent as she fumed at his high-handedness. "You are too used to thinking of yourself and never the needs of others- _that _is your major flaw!"

"But I took very good care of you, Louise! Your best interests were always the motivation for this trip. To get you away from that slave driver that calls himself a master of ballet! He was in the process of killing you by slow degrees, and let us not forget, he wanted more from you than he was entitled! You asked me to leave him unharmed. I did. You asked me to think before acting rashly. I did. And yet, you treat me worse than that simpering fool- that...that _poule mouillee!_"

The hairbrush dropped from nerveless fingers as her long-smoldering resentment took precedence over her unnatural calm of the past two days. "You took good care of me, did you? Removing my own will and inserting yours into its place? You still have absolutely _no_ idea of what you've done, do you? You merely give lip service to love and caring, while merrily going about and getting your own way- as you have always managed to do! Well, I am _sick _of it and your excuses as well!" She advanced on him, her simmering anger at last boiling over, and once gentle Louise took a swing at very startled Erik.

Eyes wide with shock, he just managed to duck out of the way. "Louise! Really, I must-" His mouth snapped shut and he went swiftly on the defense as she took another angry swing at him, his self-preservation kicking in, as one hand shot out to hold her at bay. She wasn't listening to him; her intent seemed to be bodily harm, if not his early demise.

His spidery fingers wrapped gently around her head and kept her easily at arm's length while she swung ineffectually, trying her best to connect with some bony part of him. He wasn't certain what she was muttering through clenched teeth, as she lashed out at him; he caught a word here and there, and it wasn't in any way, words of love- or even polite, for that matter. She was not happy with her Erik, but as he fended her off, he couldn't help but think that this was preferable to her coldness. _Much _more preferable. The ridiculousness of it struck him, and he chuckled while his red-faced hoyden kept swinging wildly and cursing him, as the kitten tried to become a lion. He laughed even louder when she whipped her head from side to side, trying to bite his hand. She was adorable.

Sorelli heard his amusement, and it fed her growing rage at his very obvious male complacency. Unerringly, she used the strongest part of her anatomy; her legs, which were imbued with a special strength from years of developing them through dance. In what felt like slow motion, she raised one now and lashed out with it, striking him a glancing blow to the solar plexus; that little bundle of nerves behind the stomach which when hit severely enough, could bring down the largest and most dangerous foe. Erik, not realizing her intention, was not ready for it, and grunted as the breath was knocked out of him. Aside from the pain now blooming below his breastbone, he could only feel a vague relief that it hadn't been a direct kick. She had caught him unawares. Him. The Angel of Death. The thrice damned Opera Ghost. Yet he felt nothing but admiration for her as his hand dropped from Louise's face, and he went down gasping for air.

That she had caught him off guard, brought no joy or sense of achievement. He was curled up on the floor trying hard to pull air into his lungs through a diaphragm she had just unforgivably punched with a well-aimed kick. Tears sprang to her eyes when the sound of his torturous breathing brought back the memory of a very ill Erik, and her terror that every rasping breath would be his last. She crouched on the floor beside him, sickened by what she had done. She'd had the gall to chastise him for his actions concerning her, but _she _had turned around and committed the same questionable tactics. They deserved each other.

"Erik? _Erik_-" Louise reached out her hands to turn him over, and quick as a snake, he latched on to them, tugging her to the floor. How she ended up pinned beneath him, both of her hands held snugly in one of his above her head, she couldn't quite grasp. He went from victim to victor faster than her spinning mind could comprehend, and she was disconcerted- and aroused, she admitted to herself in disgust, by his angular body pressed so very firmly into hers. She tried valiantly to hold on to her anger before it could fizzle out, and made a stab at upholding her principles.

"_Get _off me!" she snarled.

He said nothing- couldn't, as he labored to get air in his lungs through a battered diaphragm.

Sorelli mistook his silence for arrogance. "You think you are so cunning, don't you? _Don't you?" _she seethed. "You are shameless!"

He fought for breath while he imprisoned her hands in one of his, and held her still while she tried to buck him off. He would have an enormous bruise where she had kicked him, and thought a rib had been cracked in the process, but he reasoned he had come away lucky; any lower and his days of manhood would have been a thing of the past. He grinned painfully. His Louise kicked like a mule.

Sorelli unfortunately caught his smile and misread it. "Oh! You are insufferable! You are still in the wrong. You know you are! If you ever again put something mind altering in my body without my consent or knowledge...if you _ever_ go behind my back to do what you damn well please, I will leave you, Erik. I will leave you, and I won't look back once!"

His saffron eyes had taken on a reddish cast as he surveyed her trapped so nicely beneath him. He groaned with a mixture of pain and lust. Her wriggling was driving him to insanity, his agony from her hard kick melting into a steady ache as he stared avidly at her. She was lovely with her wild hair caught over his arms, her eyes dark with anger and- he grinned a wolfish grin. Desire.

His satisfied smile had her contemplating a well-placed knee in an area of his anatomy that would wipe the annoying smirk off his face, but instead, she told him baldly, "I love you more than anyone or anything in the world, and it will kill me to leave you...but, you listen well, Erik St. Clair... I _will_ find the strength to walk away- if you don't swear to me now that you will never do such a thing again. You know I can do it. You know it! Promise me now."

He heard the conviction behind her words; the utter finality of them, and it frightened him. "I promise," he whispered, and kissed her neck, nuzzling the warm and fragrant skin. "If you promise to never leave me."

"I won't leave. But you must stop living inside your head where all of your fool-hardy schemes begin! You are so much better than that. After all, we do not live in the...you...why you...oh!" She went quiet as he swooped in and began peppering tiny kisses over her face, each succeeding kiss of longer duration. His broken soul coaxed hers to come out and play; join him in the pursuit of happiness, and she sighed when his mouth hovered over hers, never alighting where she wanted it the most.

"I will change for you, Louise. I swear it! But you must help me."

"I will. You may count on it. You don't realize what I-"

His mouth claimed hers, neatly silencing her, and she tightened her legs around him, pulling him as close as possible. It was wonderful. It was torture. His cool lips left hers, trailing fire wherever they touched, and he murmured against her ear, "I have been lost without you; in the same house, yet so very far apart," and when she would have spoken, he placed a long finger to her mouth. "Shh. Let me finish." His finger described a tender circle on her full bottom lip, and her eyes closed in pleasure. "I will become what you need. I will devote the remainder of my life to it." His hands tenderly framed her face, his thumbs busy as they stroked the corners of her mouth. "And so we have dispensed with the preliminaries. I am a blackguard, but _you,_ Louise are a virago, and I love you madly."

She was very tempted to bite his thumb, which at that moment, was gently stroking the corner of her mouth. "A virago, is it? I am _not _loud and overbearing! In fact, I-"

"The word also implies strength and spirit...which is how it was meant, you little termagant," he said in amusement. "Now be quiet and let Erik kiss you."

Mollified, her arms curled around his neck as his mouth moved eagerly on hers, his enthusiasm more than making up for any lack of finesse. Their circumstances had leapt from a spark to a flame, as it nearly always did when they were together. She feverishly kissed him back, her universe had shrunk and narrowed down to only him, knowing in her heart that tonight they would take that last step required to bind them together always. At long last he broke their kiss, his mouth sliding to her throat, and she nearly purred from the exquisite feel of those thin lips.

"You own my heart, you know," he whispered against her skin.

Her smile was wicked as she looked up at him heavy-eyed with desire. "I must be mad to even consider you as the keeper of mine," she muttered, only half teasing, "but I can't think of any other man I would want to have it."

"Mad? Then I thank God for it," his voice husky. "We can be insane together." His hand slowly moved downward, its intent to feel the softness of her breast- take it into his keeping and shower love upon it. He shifted his weight off of her a bit, his excitement exhorting him to hurry, until a chance thought worked its way into his convoluted mind and he froze. In the next instant, he was on his feet, leaving Louise sprawled alone on the floor.

Feeling bereft of his welcome weight, she sat up, goggling owlishly at him. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head and dropped his eyes from hers. "Go to bed, Louise."

She studied him as she sat there unfulfilled, her heated blood slowly cooling. "Alone?"

"Y-Yes. Of course. Now go to bed."

She shook her head and got to her feet. "No one is going to get any sleep tonight, if _that's_ any indication," she replied, jerking her chin at his groin, two spots of color high on each of her cheek bones. Erik began moving backward as she walked toward him, watching her suspiciously as she advanced.

Louise approached him with slow, hesitant steps, as she would approach a wary animal. She had no idea why he had bolted; with Erik it was anyone's guess. He was an odd mix of contradictions- arrogance and naïveté. Brilliance and poor judgement. Gentle vs. coldly calculating. The list was endless, it seemed.

And he was hers.

He continued to back up, her eyes locked onto his, until she got close enough to reach out and pluck the mask off of his face. He could have easily stopped her, yet he did nothing, only flinching at the exposure. She put up a hand and stroked his distorted cheekbone, her fingers moving down to slide across his lips. He groaned, feeling the lust which constantly teased him, nipping at his control, her caresses threatening to undo his shiny new vow to always put her needs before his.

A muscle had started working in his jaw from his dilemma, but his restraint where she was concerned was nearly at its end. That he had once again brought them to the edge of disaster wasn't lost on him at all, and it briefly occurred to Erik, that maybe _she_ was just as touched in the head as he, for what normal woman would love someone like him? He was very close to taking her and that would never do. But oh how she was teasing him. He continued his move backward, desperately trying for self-restraint, but onward she came, and at last he was unable to move any further, when his head connected painfully with the wall.

He tried one last time to halt her progress. "Stop this now before it is too late. I mean it, Louise," he warned.

She noticed the shaking of his hands as he clenched them into tight fists, and his eyes which appeared black from the dilation of pupils, told her how desperately he tried to rein in his desires.

She smiled.

Erik saw her lips curving up and wondered at it. Taking a deep breath, he ignored the dull ache from his bruised abdomen, and braced himself as her arms curled around his neck. He remained rigid in her arms, pressing backward, as though wood and plaster would absorb him into the wall. Louise leaned in even closer, her mouth at his ear, causing a shiver to run up his spine; nevertheless, he held himself perfectly still, afraid to move.

"No. I won't," she said reasonably, tugging his unresisting mouth down to hers, and kissing him with the force of her love behind it. She ran the tip of her tongue across his nothing lips and felt a wave of heat envelop her when he moaned.

He used the last of his shattered will power and put hands to her shoulders, fingers digging painfully into her flesh, hard enough to bruise. "I will not chance getting you with child," he muttered. "I will not." He cursed his foul luck, having her dangling in his face what he had longed for, and completely forgetting the fact that anything done tonight could bear fruit.

She froze for just a second, not comprehending how they made the leap from just the two of them, to possibly three. She almost laughed out loud at the picture they must present. There was a role reversal here that didn't escape her notice. _She _was the aggressor now, and Erik was in effect withholding himself from her. Fortunately, she realized he wouldn't see the humor in it, and wiped the smile from her face.

"I am surprised you didn't think of that before bringing me here," she murmured, as her hand made lazy little circles on his chest.

"My concern at the time was giving you a rest, not more acrobatics," he feebly protested. _Oh, but how I want to indulge in them with you._

"I am rested. You have seen to that very well. What Louise wants now has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with Erik," and her fingers went into his hair and stroked his scalp gently, with just the slightest touch of her nails. Another groan escaped him, and though his hands still gripped her, they were beginning to caress more than restrain. She took pity on him. "I haven't had my courses for nearly a year. It is often like that for dancers," and she gave him a tiny kiss on his bony chin. "_Now_ would you like to indulge in some acrobatics?" and her mouth alighted on his and placed a warm kiss at the very corner.

His arms came around her, pulling her almost painfully tight against him, as his mouth greedily descended on hers, forcing her lips apart. His once nimble fingers felt clumsy and thick as they worked at the row of buttons on the back of her blouse, and before he had gone halfway, he was growling in frustration. Louise, hearing it, felt her belly tightening in response. He yanked at the material, popping buttons open to send them spinning across the worn floor. His waistcoat and cravat fared no better in her hands, as she tugged with impatience at these encumbrances to feeling his naked flesh against hers. She slipped the cravat loose and it fluttered to the floor, lying there like a discarded memory.

They tugged and pulled at each other's clothes in a near frenzy, all of their longing and games before this moment, foreplay to the actual event. He stopped and stared numbly at her as the clothes which hid her from his eyes were removed and more was revealed to him. His eyes were drawn to the tiny pale scar on her shoulder where a knife had marred her flesh ten years ago. On its own, his finger traced the small blemish, before his hungry gaze dropped to her small breasts. His hands ached to touch them.

"So beautiful," he muttered hoarsely. "Oh, Louise, you are so-" He paused for just a moment; one tiny moment when clarity of thought intruded into his bubble of happiness, and he felt nothing but self-loathing. He brought her blood-stained hands, a blackened soul, and a monstrous exterior. For a foul creature such as himself to sully her youth and vibrancy when he was surely beneath her, was beyond the pale. Even for him. But it was far too late for either of them, and he could now add selfishness to his sins. For he would have her.

Overcome, he lifted her into his arms and moved on wobbly knees to the bed. His mouth was fastened on her neck, and she shuddered at the luscious feel of his tongue ghosting across the heightened sensitivity of her skin. He laid her gently on the mattress, managing to snuff the paraffin lamp before she held up eager arms and pulled him down with her. Where he belonged. He whispered her name over and over again, aware of nothing else but her, and before too many minutes had sped by, they were a tangle of long limbs as their bodies joined, their journey now complete.

* * *

His fingers in her hair woke her. Feeling a little disoriented, she nevertheless knew whose hand was playing with her curls...knew quite well the lean body pressed up against her back. She smiled into the dark and stretched like a contented house cat. She had been well used by him, and could feel the blooming of bruises in some key locations from his relentless onslaught. Their lovemaking had been awkward in the beginning; neither of them were seasoned lovers, and their explorations at first were hesitant and shy. But eagerness and need proved to be willing teachers, and made up for any lack of real experience at intimacy. That would come with time. There was no shortage of passion though, and they had indulged it over and over again, until the creeping light of dawn appeared slyly beneath the edges of the decrepit drapes.

His hand left her hair to wander in a lazy path down her side, pausing to stroke and knead the smooth flesh of her hip. He gripped it possessively. _Mine. _"Good morning," he whispered, his breath moving the fine hairs at her temple, causing her to shiver in remembered delights.

She turned in his arms and placed her lips to his throat. "Mm, it is, isn't it?"

"Never finer," as he blissfully ignored the pain from his bruised stomach where she had kicked him. His little mule.

He had made a loving exploration of her body- tasting everything before his avid eyes like a starving man invited to a table of plenty which groaned with every conceivable delectation in the world. Louise for her part, did the same with him; the first woman to ever find his body lovable, fine tuned into an instrument of pleasure just for her. She had done her own exploring- discovering what pleased him, _everything, _and drove him to cry out her name. He kissed the top of her tousled head and slid his lips to the corner of her mouth- that mouth which had done amazing things to him in the depths of the night. _Mine._ But his rapturous mood was short lived when he considered losing what he had just gained. He needed to make her his in the eyes of the law. As per usual with Erik, once the idea entered his head, action must be taken, and he took her by the shoulders, his fingers gripping tightly.

"Say you will be my wife and make me the happiest I have ever been! Marry me, Louise. Today."

"Why are you in such a hurry?"

"I want you married to me before another day goes by."

She realized he was dead serious. "But...but Maria is planning a wedding. At the least, she wants to be there," she said in confusion, laying her fingers on his jaw. "You want us to marry now?"

He nodded against her hand. "Yes." He raised serious eyes to hers, imploring her to understand his doubts- his insecurities. "Once you...you think about what truly lies beside you...what you have allowed _inside _of you, you will want your freedom."

"You are so very wrong," she whispered.

He held her away from him. "Marry me now," he repeated, his eyes twin flames in his ruined face.

She took one of his hands in hers, and raised it to her mouth. "Finding a priest in this weather will not be easy, but I think an exchange of vows between the two of us will suffice."

"It is not legally binding, Louise. I want you to be mine in the eyes of the law."

She threaded her fingers through his. "But it _will _be binding- a pledge made between you and me before God. We will exchange our vows right here. Right now," she said softly, placing her hand lightly on his chest. "We will finalize it just as we planned when we return to Paris. All right?" and he nodded in relief as his fingers stroked her smooth cheek. She knew Erik well enough by now to realize how important this was to him. He would have his wife to stand beside him, her hand tucked into his for those long meandering walks they would take.

She looked deep into his eyes, knowing it was much too late to withdraw her love, now that it had been freely given, and she didn't want to- her love for him was fierce. She brushed a strand of unruly hair off his brow, ignoring the mare's nest hers had become. "I, Louise Renee Sorelli, do take Erik St. Clair as my lawful husband before God, pledging my troth for as long as I have breath in my body. Forsaking all others and cleaving only to him."

He held tightly to her hands and took a deep breath. "I, Erik St. Clair, do take Louise Renee Sorelli as my lawful wife before God, pledging my troth for as long as I have breath in my body. Forsaking all others and cleaving only to her."

Louise wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned her forehead against his. "Let what God has joined as one, never be sundered. I pronounce us husband and wife." She raised her mouth to his. "You may now kiss your bride, Monsieur St. Clair and seal our bond."

"My own little wife." He tipped her chin up, and softly quoted words he had read long ago and never forgot. "I filled with love, and she all over charms; both equally inspired with eager fire, melting through kindness, flaming with desire," and kissed her.

"That's lovely," she whispered.

"Mm. I feel as though I could slay dragons if there were any around; even move a mountain or two. For you, Louise. For you, I can do anything. Be anything."

"I'm sure of it."

"We will formalize our marriage when we return to Paris. Make it legal and binding." She said nothing...couldn't, as his mouth claimed hers again, his passion for her consuming his thoughts, drawing him back into that whirling vortex. Nothing could compare to it. "Once more, but meno mosso. Dolce, yes?" as he nuzzled her neck and proceeded to make love to his wife again.

"Yes," she agreed, nearly breathless from his ardor. "Slower this time. And sweetly, my love."

Her legs wrapped around him, tugging him into the cradle of her slim hips- pulling him home. She gave herself up to his mouth, her desire climbing to match his. The ancient bed frame squeaked in protest as they began again, the lumpy mattress their marriage bower, and it soon developed a rhythm which matched their own.

She lay in the circle of his arms afterward, wondering fleetingly how a day could end so much differently than it had begun. Erik had arrived with her breakfast, literally tiptoeing around her as she continued her quest to punish him for bringing her here. And by nightfall, she had given herself to this man; given herself into his keeping. She had no idea what was ahead for them; what their lives together would become- no one had that knowledge. She nuzzled his chest, and his arms tightened reflexively around her. She snuggled into his side and closed her eyes.

He curled protectively around Louise while she slept, his face buried in her hair, loath to separate from her. He was awake when dawn lightened the room to pearly gray, exposing more of the dreary room, its faded wallpaper showing clearly, the absence of pictures which had once hung on its walls. It was a drab room, not fit for his wife, but love didn't require beauty- only a heart willing to look beyond the obvious and find the treasure deep within. He now had a beautiful memory for this old house in which he had been treated as an outcast. Those scars were deeply embedded in his psyche, and would never go away, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as it once had.

He had made an important discovery during the night, and at long last felt like a viable part of the human race. Taking pleasure, he found, was exhilarating. Giving it, was even better. For a selfish man, that was quite a revelation. Erik put his cheek against his wife's.

The light brightened further as lemony sunshine burst forth, looking for a way in past the worn drapes. If the old, tired earth could begin anew each day, why not him? _She _had taken a ghost and breathed new life into him. He was living proof of that.


	41. Chapter 41

**A/N This chapter got away from me, but I assure you, it does eventually end ;)**

* * *

_ 1884_

"Antoinette! This portion is allegro, _not _adagio. How many times must I explain this to you?"

The young girl, eyes large and solemn, came to a less than graceful stop, automatically taking up fourth position. She glanced uneasily at Madame St. Clair. "I...It's my feet, madame. Sometimes they get a little confused," she stuttered, her face flaming as a titter rippled across the room.

"Yes, I am well aware of some of the ill-conceived tricks ones legs can do to trip us up. Be that as it may, try harder to make them behave," she replied dryly. She looked at the girl not unkindly. "The violinist is here for a reason, child. _Listen _to the music and its tempo." Her eyes swept the group of ballerinas, landing on each and every one of them. "That goes for all of you." She nodded to the violinist, and the music began again as the newest member of the corps de ballet went through her dance routine under the watchful eye of the ballet mistress.

Louise smirked as she observed them, knowing they were more than ready to finish for the day. Not so very long ago, she was the one chafing at the unending rehearsals and sore muscles. As she would again.

She finally signaled to them that rehearsal was done, and left the dancer's salon for her dressing room, satisfied with the way the company was progressing. She had been acting ballet mistress since Vincente had departed for Naples on the death of his father, requesting that Louise take his place in the interim. She had accepted with alacrity, pleased at the chance to instruct again. A short furlough had been pushed to three months as he unsnarled his father's estate which had been left in shambles by his mother and siblings. Louise found herself hoping he stayed away a little longer.

Today was special, and had her reflecting on the past two years, knowing without a doubt, they had been the best of her life.

When they returned from Rouen two years ago, it was to a stalled production just as Erik had predicted. Breda had been indisposed with an undisclosed ailment, and Estelle described their last rehearsal, as a smug Marthe was introduced as the new Odette, and a green faced ballet master spent more time off stage than on it. Swan Lake had ground to a halt while Breda recovered from his _ailment_, with no one to oversee rehearsals, for Maestro Reyer had refused to take on those duties along with his own. It was into this atmosphere that Louise returned, and a thoroughly cowed Vincente welcomed her back, ready to repair their working relationship. He had no wish to be accused of taking advantage of his position for his own personal gratification. The anonymous letter he had received had warned him of the dangers of continuing on his present course.

Seduction with promises of advancement, wasn't anything new, and was practiced often in opera houses around the world, but it was an unspoken rule that once caught at it, termination usually followed. The position of Maitre de ballet could be tenuous if Vincente failed to heed the threats made against him. Because of her husband's interference and his continued surveillance, Breda was a newly cautious man, at least on the surface, for he had become all business during rehearsals. Rumors made their way through the theatre, that he did his hunting among the haute monde ladies, who were more than willing to conduct affairs with the handsome ballet master. Erik's authorship of the threatening letter, was never mentioned, nor was his involvement in Vincente's sudden illness. He treated Louise with professional courtesy and nothing else, and if he had a tendency to occasionally glance into the auditorium for a tall, thin figure, she didn't blame him. Whether he connected his affliction to Erik or not, didn't really matter, but that didn't mean he no longer watched him, and Vincente knew it well. Louise was certain of that much. She took up her position as prima ballerina and triumphed on opening night in Swan Lake.

She married Erik formally in a ceremony at La Madeleine, and it had begun with only a few invited as witnesses. Maria was able to plan the small wedding, bedeck her niece in the beautiful antique satin wedding gown that she herself was married in, and lavish a sumptuous dinner on the newly wedded couple. They were joined by Nadir Khan, Estelle Taillier and Gilberte Caron, but the corps de ballet refused to be left out of the celebration, and inveigled invitations. That her new husband was dismayed by all of the faces before him watching the proceedings with avid interest, was not lost on her, but he persevered for her sake, keeping his gaze stoically fixed on his bride, the most beauteous of any in his opinion, before or since. She rewarded him for his patience, by giving him a wedding night to remember, five cellars below in the little house by the lake. Neither she or Erik considered the ceremony as binding as the vows they had made to each other that night in Rouen, but for her husband, he had the peace of mind knowing that Louise was indeed his by law. A week later, they traveled by train to Orleans and spent a portion of their honeymoon at the very hotel where they had parted ten years before, then continued on to Naples where she led her brand new husband in exploration all over the surrounding countryside.

Home again, they took up residence in her apartment, Louise's room becoming theirs. Maria liked having a man under her roof once again, for Erik was clever with his hands and good at fixing what needed repaired. For his part, Erik enjoyed the novelty of being in the company of women, but at first he walked on egg shells. Not used to living with others, he said very little, and when he did, it was with stiff politeness. Once night fell, he and Louise would retire to bed, where they reveled in the delights of the marriage bed, and in this way, he gradually settled into his new life. The home below the opera house was still occupied from time to time as a trysting place for the married couple to give their passions freer rein. Maria thought it a good idea after getting up one night to use the water closet, and heard the sounds of her niece enjoying the attentions of her husband. When his singular nature longed for peace and quiet, Erik would take himself off to the little house, preferring to work on his music uninterrupted. But the silence would begin to pall after only a few hours, and he would become eager for his wife and the sound of her voice.

Between performances, they traveled to Rouen and began renovation on the house which would be their second residence, away from the bustle of Paris. The childhood home he was forced from; the place which at one time held nothing but misery and loneliness, had taken on a new meaning. It held memories of a different sort now- the kind to build a life around. He had left his home with nothing but fear of the unknown to accompany him, and had come back to it with a wife of his own, having everything his mother had always insisted would never be his.

Maria and Nadir had accompanied them to Normandy and Louise smiled, thinking of the strange couple the two made. Hardly stranger than her and Erik, she supposed, but her aunt returned from Naples two years before with nothing but praise for the Persian, and they had become an item. Louise laughed to think how they had settled into a relationship which neither of them were in a hurry to make permanent. But it was plain to see, they were fond of one another and Louise was happy for them. Her husband? Not so very much. He complained that Nadir Khan was under their roof more than his own.

The home in Rouen needed a massive renovation which Erik was doing himself. At the same time, Louise began a project of her own. While the men labored on the main rooms, and Maria precariously prepared meals in the nearly gutted kitchen, she devoted her time to the little third story room, painting the walls a soft blue-gray, hanging bright curtains at the windows and colorful rugs on the floor. She had been collecting Erik's cast-off composition sheets; work he had begun and consigned to the trash, and she had rescued them to put aside for her project. His framed music, complete with scrawled red notes in the margins, joined some paintings she had hung on the walls- among them, the Garnier at sunrise, and the Bois de Boulogne in the spring.

She had added a wooden toy chest, complete with tin soldiers in the vivid red and deep blue of the French dragoons, as well as horses and weaponry- everything a little boy could want for an afternoon spent on the floor deciding who wins or loses a great battle. A comfortable bed piled high with thick blankets and a counterpane of royal blue took up one corner of the small space, and a desk and chair in the other. There were books on a wooden shelf near the fireplace where a questing mind could find answers- even adventure between their pages. A room any child would love. She had pleaded with Erik to desist from any questions and allow her to finish the room before showing it to him, and though greatly curious as to what his wife was doing in there, acceded to her request.

Under a veil of secrecy, and with the Persian's help, the furniture had been added to the room, the day finally coming when she led her husband by the hand up the stairs. He was tired and covered in the fine, gray dust dust which had a tendency to settle over everything, including their food. One sideways glance showed her a grim mouth; his mood was dark, and his impatience was barely held in check. The renovations were going slowly, and the work that day had been backbreaking. Louise squeezed his hand as they stood in the doorway of the small chamber which had been nothing more than a prison to him.

He silently stared at the transformation of the miserable little room where he had spent much of his childhood, wanting only a hot bath, a brandy, and the soft touch of his wife's hands on his sore muscles. And not particularly in that order. Music sheets he recognized as his, covered the walls, as well as a painting of the Garnier and another of a galleon under full sail. He knew them for what they were; bits and pieces of his mostly worthless life, perhaps the best parts; most of his miserable existence had been given over to horror and death. He knew why she had cobbled this room together. She did it for the man he had become; the one who had helped build a house of music and created his own melodies. He had returned to the place where a small deformed boy once lived in virtual isolation. Erik, against all odds and his mother's contempt, had found a life worthy of living. This was Louise's attempt to honor that.

Yet he felt very little as he regarded all of her hard work.

"Erik? Do you like it?" she asked, noting his stillness and lack of reaction. His attitude was decidedly indifferent, and it dampened her feeling of accomplishment. Louise hadn't expected an effusive response from him; her husband never approached anything without some suspicion and doubt, but even a little tepid enthusiasm would have been welcome.

He rolled his shoulders and winced at their stiffness. "You think my years of neglect are made palatable by a coat of paint and a handful of toys? You are a sentimental fool, Louise," and she tensed at his scathing words.

She masked her hurt with indignation. "Sentimental fool, is it? Maybe I am. No! I _know_ I am since you have been kind enough to point it out to me in all of your vaunted wisdom," she made a sour face at him, "but paint and the trappings of comfort are not reasons for belittling my efforts." She shrugged, pretending an indifference she didn't feel. "Perhaps I couldn't rid myself of the image of you sitting up here all alone in a room barren of any comfort- any pleasure. I thought it might ease your mind a little to know someone else acknowledges your painful childhood. Empathizes with you. Where's the harm? Even if it's disgustingly sentimental as you imply?"

He sorely regretted his words, but it was too late to retract them. He reached for her hand and she made to snatch it away from his grasp, but he held on, turning it over in his. He admired her slender fingers, the slim taper of them down to the smooth oval nails, once buffed and neat, now a little ragged from her labors; fingers which soothed and comforted him when the past intruded on his present. He placed a tender kiss in the center of her palm, then looked into wary hazel eyes.

"_You_ make it easier, Louise." His eyes swept the once mean room, now made warm and inviting. "Existing here as I did was nothing," he said quietly. "What followed was infinitely worse." He slipped an arm around her shoulders, refusing to revisit his violent past, and called himself every kind of fool when she stiffened at his touch. "All the same, I do appreciate the effort you put into it."

"I didn't do it for you," she said crisply, still smarting from his words, but she leaned against him, winding an arm around his thin waist.

"Who else then?"

"A little boy you once knew."

A small apartment was being built over the stone barn for their new caretaker. Baudin, the hunchback who had taken Louise and Maria on their enforced drive that long ago night, had at first been considered for the position, but he had no wish to leave Paris and the opera's horses of which he had become fond. Erik had gone through numerous applicants until he found a reliable man for the job, who would busy himself with the maintenance of the house and grounds. Louise was ecstatic to find a new roof was also planned for the gazebo by the river.

She was busy with her days; dancing was always a harsh taskmaster, but it was her nights- oh, her nights were a journey of their own, one spent exploring the carnal side of marriage in her husband's arms. He had kept his promise to her and settled into married life with a surprising aptitude for it. If he occasionally had a relapse, becoming moody and a trifle distant, she could readily forgive him; nightmares had a tendency to linger, leading his mind down a dark and dreary road littered with his misdeeds, and leaving her behind for a time.

Those were the days and evenings he spent isolated in the lake house; surrounded by the pungent smell of herbs in his little workroom, or scribbling furiously as he pounded music into a semblance of something worth keeping. His activities would become feverish then; anything to silence his guilt and the beseeching voices from his brutal past. The music of the masters would fly from fingertips becoming sore from their relentless hammering of the keys, as he had soon abandoned anything coming from his haunted imagination; most of the music penned at these times was useless- too dark and twisted to appeal to the masses. He would remain there until the small hours of morning, when the quiet and solitude became a white noise, growing ever louder, and he would creep out of the dank cellar, making his swift way through the empty streets with only one intention. He would slip into their bed and reach for his warm and drowsy wife, her arms always closing around his gaunt frame in welcome. His lovemaking then, would have a desperate edge to it; a pleasure so raw, it bordered on pain, as he lost himself in her, and managed to quiet his demons, until at last tired and sated, he fell asleep on Louise's breast. But as the sweet structure of marriage began to fill all the windy gaps in a life once lived with too much horror and loneliness, those times became fewer, the torturous dreams, less. Erik began to accept the fact that the past was indeed just that, and could hurt him no longer.

To keep himself busy, he wrote music and sold it to the opera houses in Paris, with the Garnier getting the lion's share of the best pieces. His music had altered somewhat in style; although it could never be called light, it was filled with something never included before- hope. He stubbornly refused to even contemplate another opera.

Estelle Taillier had exchanged her name for Caron a year ago, and lived on the Left Bank with Gilberte. She had continued to dance for a time, before deciding she'd had enough. "We want to start a family, Louise, and I've had my share of greasepaint, strained muscles, and curtain calls. Five o'clock feedings are starting to look rather nice," and four months later she was expecting their first child. And excelling at it, for the young woman fairly bloomed with vitality these days.

"Going out to celebrate tonight?" Estelle had joined Louise in front of her dressing room door.

"Yes. A little place of which we are both fond; Erik wants an evening completely alone, and I have to admit, it will be lovely, just he and I."

"No need to ask what the pair of you will be doing tonight then," and winked at her friend. "Two years now and still happy?"

"Yes," she agreed, "still happy." She leaned a hip against the door. "Care to join me? I have to collect his anniversary gift before meeting him in the library, but first we can have a glass of wine somewhere."

"It _would_ be nice to get off my feet for a while. Tea would be lovely though. Oh, and some of those scones as well!"

Louise laughed and gave her an affectionate look. "_You _sound nothing like my friend! What have you done with Estelle, you interloper! The feet up I recognize very well, but it usually included a bottle with something red and alcoholic inside."

They found a cafe and settled in for tea and scones, Estelle's face wreathed in smiles when they were placed in front of her and she took one. "I can no longer think only of myself, you understand. I am eating and drinking for two now, and this little one is always hungry."

"I don't know about the little one, but his maman certainly is," she said amused, as they talked desultorily about everything near and dear to their hearts.

Finally Estelle gave her a shrewd look. "Well, Louise, I've never heard you speak of children, but eventually every woman must come around to it. When will there be a tiny St. Clair?" she said, staring at the last scone on the plate.

With a laugh, Louise pushed it toward her and shrugged, reaching for her tea. "One never knows," she said cryptically.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I have to hurry you along. I need to stop at the jeweler's and I have yet to get dressed for dinner." _Or undressed if I know Erik._

She saw Estelle into a carriage for the trip home, continuing on to the rue Gluck, and entered the jeweler's. The man in the shop smiled when he saw Louise and hurried into a back room. When he emerged he held out the antique gold pocket watch. "See for yourself, madame. You will be very happy with the results. Very happy, indeed."

Louise took it eagerly and opened it. Inside the lid was a painting of the Garnier, a lovely rendition miniaturized, but still with a wealth of detail included, right down to the composer medallions, located between the columns of the front facade, but what caught the eye, was Apollo at the very center of the roof flanked by the two winged Pegasus, with the gilded figural groups of L'Harmonie and La Poesie crowning the apexes of the left and right avant-corps.

"I don't know how you did this exquisite work in such tiny detail! It is truly wonderful, Monsieur Guyenne! Remarkably lifelike for a miniature. My husband will love it, I'm sure!" Monsieur Guyenne's bearded face was wreathed in smiles, and Louise gave him a little extra for his trouble.

* * *

She tiptoed silently up behind him as he stood in the library of the Garnier leafing through a book. She was earlier than planned and had every intention of surprising him, for when her husband became engrossed in his reading he was lost to the world. She stopped just behind him, and reached out a hand, grabbing his meager backside and giving it a squeeze.

Erik unhurriedly slid the book back on the shelf, and not turning around murmured, "Ah, Filene, you little rogue. I would know those soft hands anywhere."

She pitched her voice lower, and gave him another squeeze, this one with slightly more pressure than the first. "No. Guess again, monsieur."

He grunted, hoping she wouldn't pinch him any harder than that. "Mm...must be Marthe. You _naughty_ girl."

"Wrong answer," she said in a throaty whisper, and her hand moved from his backside to his front, sliding around and squeezing something far more interesting, to which he took exception.

"Stop that," he said pleasantly.

"No," she said just as nicely, and squeezed him again.

"Careful, darling. You may have need of that later."

She leaned closer, rubbing her cheek against his thin back. "Give up?" and her voice caused a frisson of desire to run up his spine.

"It is my Louise," he murmured, slightly breathless.

"Who?"

"_Only_ my Louise."

"Quite so. I am very happy, monsieur that we did not go through a baker's dozen of pretty dancers."

He turned around and pulled her into his arms, walking her backward until he had her pushed up against the shelves, and put his lips hungrily to her neck, trailing his mouth up until it hovered over hers. "Only you, so prepare yourself, wife, for once we arrive home, I _will _have you."

"I am counting on it," she whispered.

* * *

They walked companionably to the lake house, a trip they had made together hundreds of times before; the very first, as a young and frightened girl, caught between the grinding poverty of war and the enigmatic man she had come to love. "Are you ready for tonight?"

"I certainly hope so. After promising you an evening of enlightenment, I don't want to let you down." He snugged her arm closer to his side. "It is the celebration of our second year of marriage and I want it to be special for you."

"It will be."

"For me? Yes. You make it so. But I want it up and working the way it should, not letting you down every time I _tell_ you it will work. What kind of husband do you take me for?"

She looked up at his masked profile, once menacing to her, now so very dear. "The best kind."

They soon arrived at the little house, and with a flourish, he opened the door and ushered his wife inside the darkened foyer. "Now, if you will be so good and do the honors? Touch it and see what happens."

She peeled off her gloves, handing them to Erik, and reached out a hopeful hand. With a flick of the wall switch beside the door, the entire room lit with brilliant, illuminating light. "You did it! My smart gentleman. We have electricity," and looking about her, she exclaimed in admiration, "Not a shadowy corner to be found anywhere!" She grinned as she observed the clarity provided by the incandescent bulb, which had banished gloom forever in the lake house. Louise turned to her husband, who was staring about the room as if seeing it for the very first time.

His suddenly grim mouth disconcerted her. "Erik? Isn't this what you wanted? Your hard work...the...the time spent wiring...all of the false starts. They've all been worthwhile...haven't they?" She regarded the spill of light from one of the fragile looking pieces of glass he had ordered from a company in England. "What's wrong?"

He put an arm around her waist and pulled her close, his mouth still set in a grimace. He shook his head. "Nothing really, but it _is _bright, isn't it? I never realized just how much until now. I was so caught up in getting it to work this time, and I-I wanted it perfect for you. I never thought-" He went quiet when they were suddenly plunged into darkness.

"Much more romantic this way, don't you think?" she murmured, removing her hand from the switch. "We can use the electricity another time. Maybe even cover the bulbs with shades of some kind so they're muted a little...like they are in the theatre. Tonight, we'll light some candles. It will be lovely," Louise whispered.

He tipped his wife's chin up and kissed her, his cool lips sliding along hers, their pressure increasing as her mouth opened to his gentle assault.

She knew him so well.

* * *

The soft hiss and sputter from the parlor stove was the only sound in the room, the couple lying on the bed, unmoving save for the occasional tightening of the man's arms around the woman.

The room was mellow from the golden glow of the thick white candles which surrounded them; for the time being, they were perfectly happy with the shadows returning to their respective corners. After years of a more tenebrous light, it would take a while to accustom himself to the more revealing glare of electricity- to reveal more of _himself_. But they had other things to occupy themselves with that evening. Erik had promised his wife what she could expect on arriving at the little house beside the lake; it was no wonder the hours had got away from them, as they usually did when they were alone.

"How late is it?" she asked, stretching contentedly.

He turned away from her and reached for his brand new watch on the night table, popping the lid. "Just ten. Dinner, I'm afraid, will be dry and require an extra libation simply to wash it down. We've been here longer than I planned since you would not allow me to leave the bed," he teased, and felt a light caress to his hip, "at least not until you achieved an impressive number of... _ow!_" He turned around and squinted at her when she pinched his bare rump. "You are showing an unseemly interest in that particular part of my anatomy today." He tilted his head thoughtfully, and smiled with the last lingering traces of euphoria. "Well, not only that, I suppose."

"You old fraud! You have that wrong as usual," she sniffed, and slid her hand up his bare back, over the puckered and ridged skin of past wounds; scars which she had anointed with kisses, striving to take away the old hurt and replace it with a little tenderness. Her fingers finally arrived at their destination and began stroking the back of his neck, which he loved. "Who attacked whom? I have clothes scattered from the front door to," and she picked up her silk drawers, and dangled them in his face, "here."

He snorted. "You know it is true. If you had your way, you would keep Erik locked up as Louise's plaything," and she giggled when he waggled his scant eyebrows at her.

He began to finger the plain gold band he had placed on her finger the day they wed. He often played with the ring in an absent minded way, his fingers turning it one way or another, delighting in the metal warmed by her flesh, as it proclaimed to the world that Louise belonged to Erik.

She held out her right hand for a benediction from his cool lips. Which he willingly supplied. It was his anniversary gift to her; a cabochon stone, set in an oval of white gold, the metal forming two rows of delicate rope braid. The cat's eye winked back at her from the firelight and she admired its color, for it was nearly the shade of her husband's eyes.

"Do you truly like it, Louise?"

"I adore it. I adore _you_," she said simply. "Do you like your gift?"

"At the risk of parroting your words, trust me when I say that I adore it, but nowhere near the adoration I have for the giver," and leaned over to nuzzle her cheek.

"Mm...you always know what to say. Now, let's eat! You have worked up an enormous appetite in Louise."

"Every gift from you is special," he muttered quietly, almost to himself.

She paused in getting out of bed, as he ran his thumb over the embossed face of his new pocket watch. He flipped it open and stared at the cunning likeness of the building he invested with so much of his life. Louise observed him for a moment. He delighted in each gift, large or small that she bestowed on him. The thought of his simple pleasure in them brought a lump to her throat every time she watched him open something from her. "I love you," she whispered.

He turned to her then, his smile wistful. "It is my dearest hope that you always will. Without you, I would-" He shook his head, and dropped his eyes.

Her manner turned brisk, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Up, monsieur! This instant! I require sustenance before we begin again," and as her husband eyed her slim form, she grabbed her dressing gown and disappeared into the bathing room.

He glanced around the room, noting their clothing draped over the furniture and trailing along the floor, and recalled her words not long after they wed. "For those times we stay in the lake house, I won't change a thing," she said firmly. "It is the place where you can still escape when you are overwhelmed by sharing a home with two chattering women."

Fortunately for him, he hadn't believed her.

Her things had begun to migrate to his little house with every overnight trip they made to it. Twelve years before, she had inhabited his home as a young girl with nothing but the clothes on her back; now she was a grown woman, with a grown woman's fondness for color and style; for the shimmering silks, satin, and delicate laces which made up her tout ensemble. He would stop and suddenly look about him, achingly aware of how she had invaded his little home. Entering their bedchamber, he would find a filmy peignoir tossed over the bedpost, or belatedly regard her clutter of perfumes and pots of night creams, which had expanded to include nearly every available surface. His home even smelled better, and he could only surmise it was the scent of his wife- an enticing mixture of floral and freshness.

Where he might have one hat sitting on the hall table, she had several, his lone fedora looking for all the world like a drab and somber visitor, forlornly sitting among its gaudier companions as it vied for space. Normally he kept his current book beside his reading chair. Not so his wife. She had several novels piled haphazardly on the side table along with a stack of her favorite ladies periodicals folded open to articles she had never bothered to finish. If one were to search for signs of him in the apartment they shared with Maria, they would need to look closely, for his things were much less obvious. His clothing was neatly hung in the wardrobe, his tiny collection of bottles and unguents merely taking up a fraction of the space his wife seemed to require in the home beneath the opera. Aside from the large piano ensconced in the parlor, his composition sheets spread across the shelf and lid, anyone would be hard put to say that he even resided there. But Louise came to him with a fondness for dresses and pretty things, whether to drape on her person or dab behind her ears. She had more than enough goods to distribute equally between both places. And she did. He would gaze about him in the lake house at the signs of woman everywhere.

His woman...

And wonder again how he deserved such wealth.

They sat at the dining room table in different stages of undress; Louise in her velvet dressing gown of peacock blue, a gift from her husband their first Christmas together, and Erik in trousers and a carelessly buttoned white shirt, eating roast beef sandwiches slathered with mustard. The vegetable side dishes he had prepared were limp and dry, but the bread was fresh and the coffee hot. Louise tore into her sandwich, and was already eying the dessert she bought that afternoon; it was a gateau basque, made from almond flour and filled with pastry cream.

He caught her perusal of the cake and shook his head in exasperated amusement. "Not until you eat your sandwich. For the love of the saints, Louise! Will you ever outgrow that sweet tooth of yours?"

"Probably not," she replied mildly. "Any more than I will outgrow you," and gave him a wink. "You should have seen my fortitude this afternoon when I allowed Estelle to have the last scone."

He wiped his mouth and pushed his plate away. "I am not an expert on une femme enceinte, but I would assume eating one's way through nine months of confinement is not the best of practices. Only think; the child will want nothing but sugar to eat."

"I don't believe that is the way it works, my love," as she made a face at him and reached for a dessert plate. She cut a slice of cake and offered it to him.

"None for me. Perhaps you should wrap it up and take it to Estelle," he said dryly, as he poured them more coffee, then took her hand, his thumb lightly rubbing across her knuckles. "How does one such as Estelle give up the stage and retire from it to bear _children_?"

"Well, you needn't say it quite like that, Erik. It is a baby, not a disease!" She flashed a smile at him, but sobered when she saw how still he had become.

"Ah, but one is the same as the other, I fear. Taking a wonderful talent and ruining it for the ridiculous urge to wipe drool and change nappies!"

She reached a hand out to him and curled her fingers around his. "It still hurts, doesn't it? Her giving up the stage for marriage."

He shrugged as his thumb lightly rubbed across her knuckles. "In a word, yes. I suppose it does, but she never truly wanted it. She could have been great, Louise, but not by forcing her into it in the manner that I did. Perhaps if I had approached Christine in a different way-"" He shook his head and looked up at her, his hideous face bared to the one who loved him. "I was afraid," he said simply. "Frightened that she could never look beyond the reality of what I truly am. I writhe with shame for the way I treated her; putting aside her hopes and dreams in pursuit of mine. I am simply glad she found her happiness- that I didn't destroy that for her." He dropped his eyes, and sighed mournfully, not wishing to rehash his mad behavior with her.

Louise regarded his bowed head, and pushing back her chair, went to him and sat down on his lap, looping her arms around his neck. "She has what she always wanted, I think. A home and family. Not everyone with a gift such as hers was meant for fame. Who knows? Maybe her greatness will come from the wonderful children she raises, and _that_ will be her legacy."

She watched his face and decided to test the waters. "Most women bear children out of love for one's husband and the need for an heir."

His fingers gently tugged on a wayward curl, before tucking it behind her ear. "Well, in that case, I am certainly glad you never felt that particular urge, Louise. You are much more discerning than that."

"In two years time you still haven't budged on having a child?"

He snorted. "Good gracious no! I have you, and that is all Erik requires. How can having a child be better than that? In regards to Christine, or even Estelle, for that matter- how can taking care of one of those match what she had onstage?"

She searched his eyes for some sign of softening. "Can't you understand that there is more than fame and footlights?"

"I only understand that once forsaken, the moment moves on and is gone for good."

She flicked her finger against his bony chin. "You have a singular mind when it comes to the stage, monsieur. All else bows before it."

"You are wrong there. One thing will always take precedence over everything else."

"Oh?" she said, looking smug. "And what would that be?"

"As if you didn't know, Louise. My music, of course," he deadpanned, amused when she sat up and scowled at him.

Erik pulled her back down and threaded his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head. "Only you, silly girl and you well know it," before his mouth came down on hers claiming it by right. His lawful right.

"I do indeed," she whispered.

He was a good husband, only needing someone to believe in him. There were still times though when the opera ghost would bleed through and try to reestablish himself, and that would probably never change. It helped that she realized it going into her marriage, instead of fighting him every time he became morose or high-handed. They had had a few very tense moments and quite a few shouting matches, which she could handle easily enough; it was the icy hauteur of the Phantom which filled her with unease, his beautiful voice cold and distant. No one did arrogance better than Erik. Fortunately, those moments didn't last long; his need for her approval had him seeking a reconciliation before an hour had gone by, but there were two incidences which had blown up into full scale arguments. The first one was the worst and dealt with his controlling nature. It had occurred shortly after the wedding, and at the time she wondered if they could recover from it.

He had brought up the subject a few days before they departed on their wedding trip. "We need to talk, and this is as good a time as any, I suppose." They were in the lake house under the guise of collecting some of Erik's things, but in reality, they only wanted more intimacy, taking the chance whenever and wherever possible for more furious couplings in those first heady days of their marriage. It was much easier to be together in his little house; it was awkward when her husband gave her The Look in the parlor, or at the dining table with Maria present, for Louise had interpreted that riveting stare as his indication he wished for some moments alone with his wife. He was obviously making up for what he considered lost time, and she was more than eager to provide it for him. Eventually they would have to start looking for a larger residence, but their quick trips to the opera house allowed them enough privacy for those times they wanted it, and they were in no hurry.

She lay within the circle of his arms in his home; _their _home, she corrected herself. She stretched and he laid a long leg over hers. "I would have more of this, Louise. It is more precious than diamonds to me and I'm sure you know why."

Sated and drowsy, she glanced sleepily at him. "Yes, I do. People can be incredibly foolish. Especially my own sex."

"Ah, that is why I find you so charming! I wondered the reason and now I know. You tell the most delightful lies."

"It's not a lie, darling. It is nothing but the truth."

He sat up, putting his thin back against the headboard and tugged her up with him. "We are on borrowed time at the moment, and I want you to consider what I am about to tell you."

"This sounds serious." She glanced at him with concern. "Are you feeling all right?"

His lips brushed the top of her head. Always worried for him. "Never better. It's not that. Have you considered the chance for motherhood from all of this?" and he swept a hand across the bed, the sheets rumpled from their lovemaking.

"Motherhood? N-No, I haven't. I've already explained to you; my menses have been absent for over a year now. And even before that, they were sporadic at best. Someday perhaps I will want a child, but not now. I'm far too busy enjoying _us_."

He pulled her tight against him and sighed in contentment. "Yes. Just so. Just so. I knew you would understand. You must let me know when they do begin again. I have a tincture for you to take every morning that will allow this _joy _to continue without... complications. You will not have to worry about Erik's monstrous child growing inside of you, and we can indulge in each other until our heart's content," this said in a seductive whisper which had never failed to move her- until now.

She sat up and away from him. "You want me to take something? Haven't we gone through this before, Erik? You have a drug and I am your _experiment_?"

He took Louise's hands, lacing them with his. "No. Of course not! This is something that I spent hours perfecting and I know it works." His gaze was drawn to the stark contrast of her much smaller fingers joined with his prodigiously long and bony ones. A skeleton's hands. She was clinging to a freak of nature. _La belle et la bete_. But it bothered him less and less, if indeed it ever had. She was his by law. He sighed and shook his head. "It does not matter right now; it does not matter; however, you must come to me when your menses begin again, then you can take the infusion."

She stared at him suspiciously. "How do you know it will work?"

"It is tried and true. Take it once a day, preferably in the morning. There are no ill-effects, and the taste after making some adjustments, is not offensive."

She stared at him in the dim light. "Was this for your own personal use? The truth."

His sigh was heavy and he raked a hand through his rumpled hair. "_My _use, Louise? It was something I was enlisted to make for the shah-in-shah's harem at one time. Even then I dabbled in herbs and their myriad uses. But to answer your question, I will pose one- do you know how many times I was offered women, and how many times they backed away from me in fright? Do you?" His laugh was harsh and tinged with not a little of the old bitterness. "I could have taken them if it was my wish. _My _wish, for they were mine to do with as I pleased. I was tempted over and over; the sultana enjoyed watching the women shrink in fear from me, and even more so, my reaction to their fear. Except for you, it was the only time God was ever on my side. I was so very young and craved love- _any _love," he ground out, "but I was able to turn from that lovely, bitter fruit and do the decent thing- honor their wish for me to leave them alone. Decent never came easy for Erik and it was a hard won victory."

She forgot her anger for the moment, her eyes filling with tears at the mention of his rejection and humiliation. "Because you are a good man."

"Because I was a damn fool, Louise. The shah gave them away, one by one to his personal guards; big brutes they were, and vicious; they were not at all gentle with the odalisques. Even knowing their fate, they still preferred it to me. I would not have used them in such a manner. I would not-" he said softly, his gaze turning inward.

"What is an odalisque?" She was shocked speechless by the amount of brutality in that long ago past, in that distant and savage land.

"A concubine in the shah's harem. Women learned in the arts of giving a man pleasure."

Her brow furrowed. "That is all they do?"

"Yes."

She eyed him with triumph. "You see! That is why you are a good man! You don't give yourself enough credit, Erik."

He wouldn't tell her how very close he came to simply forcing his attentions on the nubile young women, their dusky skin taut and glowing with vitality, their eyes dark pools of promised delights. He wouldn't tell her _how he _had fought off his base urges to do as he pleased. Roaming the streets at night seeking a whore poor enough to accept his gold for the privilege of expending his lust so he _could _reject the young women with a degree of equanimity. But his murderous reputation preceded him, and although he could have had any number of them from the brothels which flourished in Mazanderan, he wouldn't find pleasure in taking a whore shaking in fear and disgust of him. He was after all, a man; a very ugly specimen, to be sure, but one with the same wants and needs of any other. He at last found a desperate woman, trying to feed her children without a man to help her, and she had given him his first taste of sex. She was twice his age and smelled strongly of onions and patchouli, but she was too beaten down by a hard scrabble life to fear him very much, and that was enough for him. With the cries of a squalling baby for background music, the air stale and filled with dust motes drifting in the torpid heat, eighteen year old Erik lost his virginity on a narrow pallet as old and tired as she was, accompanied by the sounds of her squabbling older children just the other side of the open window above them.

He shook his head to dislodge the old memory, his circumstances having become sweeter by far- he would not risk losing what he had. Losing her. "You are correct. At least in so far as denying myself was concerned. Perhaps I still thought it was possible for someone to love me someday. It took years to find you- I had all but given up," his eyes bright and strange on her, "but now that I have- I. will. not. share."

And just like that, her temper rekindled at the hard light in his eyes. "Do not think for one minute, that you can decide something this important without my agreeing to it!"

"Look at me." It was said quietly, which somehow made it worse and she did as he bid. "What do you see?"

"I see the face of the man whom I love very much," she said stubbornly.

He shook his head. "An answer which makes me weak in the knees. But, no. Look closer, Louise," he hissed softly. "Something missing? What about the overabundance of bone and absence of flesh? Would you love this in a smaller package? A child born of your body wearing the face of death?"

His narrowed eyes bore implacably into hers, doubting her ability to love a deformed child that didn't exist, except in his own troubled imaginings, and although she would never fear him again, that unblinking scrutiny gave her a moments unease. "Of course I would love your child." She snorted in anger. "But you don't even want to give me the chance! You will remove my choice and think nothing of it."

He put his arms around her. "I thought you wanted _me_, not a houseful of puling brats! Can't you be happy with just the two of us?" he pleaded. "I won't risk losing you."

"Lose me how, Erik? Simply having a child doesn't mean you lose me! You gain a...a..._child!" _she uttered inanely.

"Oh, but it could happen," he whispered, his lips appearing bloodless. "You _must _take the tincture. Childbirth is a bloodsport. Worse than any arena. I have seen-" He stopped as she pushed him away, and swung her slender legs over the side of the bed. Louise dressed hurriedly, unmindful of her lack of corset and the back of her dress gaping open. She would be damned if she asked him to button her.

"Louise?" He got to his feet and stood helplessly by as she threw clothes on. "Where are you going?" becoming anxious as she marched out of the room.

He slipped his trousers on at top speed, hopping on one foot as he pulled on one shoe then the other. "I thought we were spending the night?"

"_You_ may. I'm going home," and she marched toward the foyer, grabbing two small boxes from the items neatly piled there. She went through the door, never looking back, and started up the passage. She hadn't gone very far when he easily caught up to his wife and whirled her around. Louise was startled, looking into eyes full of love and misery.

He grabbed the band boxes from her hands and threw them down, then pulled her into his arms. "No. Do not do this, Louise! I beg you! You are killing me with this need to argue that you always indulge in. You don't love me. No, not at all! Not at all."

She struggled in his arms and tugged free, her will power against him weakening a bit at his mood. She reached for more acrimony and found it. "Let me go, Erik," she seethed. "You are trying to make me feel guilty and I won't have it!" and with a final tug, pulled loose and left him standing there.

"Louise!" his lost cry, nearly a wail.

She shook her head to get the sound of his panic out of it, not bothering to turn around. She had expected him to try and stop her again, but she continued on unhindered, anger for his overbearing attitude pushing her forward.

Louise was halfway to the rue Scribe door, before her steps faltered altogether.

She stood there indecisively for a moment, curious now as to why he hadn't followed her. The silence of the cellars crowded against her eardrums, and she cocked her head listening hard, hearing nothing but that tomb-like stillness. Nervous at the quiet, and still angry with him, she nevertheless turned around and went back. He was on their bed curled tightly on his side. She never could understand how someone as tall as Erik could accomplish that.

He never moved when the bed dipped and she laid down behind him. Louise put her arms around him hesitantly; he was shirtless and she could feel the ridge of his spine, his skin cold and nearly clammy to the touch. Her displeasure with her husband sputtered and died, as she pressed herself against him, sharing her warmth. She loved him deeply; admired him even, but he would never be normal in the way of other men. In some ways it was what made Erik so precious to her. She felt a momentary shame for arguing with him so soon after their wedding, and whispered in his ear, "You are my heart. If there is a need, I will take the infusion. I have you and that is enough."

With that, he turned over and pulled her into his arms, saying nothing as he pressed his twisted cheek to hers. He clutched at her, his hold almost smothering, but she welcomed it. Very soon, his hands were caressing her, his kisses more forceful, and with a sigh, she gave herself up to his loving worship of her body, as each of them put their first major argument since they wed behind them. Behind them, but not resolved.

The second occurred nearly a year into their marriage, and once again their bond was tested. It began when she tried talking him into applying for music director. It had been decided to split the duties of Maestro Reyer, for he had no wish to continue doing all of it. He wasn't a young man, and wanted to curtail a portion of his work load, having based this on the Comique's practice of having both a director and a conductor. She couldn't think of anyone better for the position than Erik, and worried and nagged him until he couldn't take any more. He exploded one evening when she brought it up yet again.

"Cease and desist this, right now, Louise! I have no wish to put myself in the public eye, and I shouldn't have to tell you the reason why I do not."

"But you won't _be_ in the public eye! You will be working with the company, and you would only have to contend with them. They will respect you for your talent and expertise. Just think! You could control the direction of the music instead of having no opinion at all. And didn't you tell me of a mask that would allow you to go easily among people? You would be wonderful! Reyer merely plods along, darling. You would change the very face of the performances. The energy and emotion you convey, will make the-"

"No." His voice was pitched low in a silky purr, raising the fine hairs on her neck.

They were in the parlor; Maria was visiting her friend, Madame Fontaine, and it was just the two of them. Which was good. Erik's stance was decidedly unfriendly.

Undaunted, she tried again. "I can speak with Firmin about the position. I've been here long enough now, and I should have some weight behind my opinions. And they loved the nocturne you sold to them! Wouldn't it be wonderful, darling? We could work together doing what we both love, and you would have more structure to your days and-"

"I need more structure to my days? Is that what this is about?" His voice had dropped into a cold hiss, and she had no idea of the blunder until he clarified it for her. "I do not need my wife providing me with an occupation, Louise! I can do that very well for myself. What gives you the right to interfere with what Erik chooses to do or not do?"

"Oh, I don't know; perhaps because I _am_ your wife? At least I discuss it with you, instead of going behind your back!"

The silence drew out, and she was afraid to look into those eyes which could soften with so much love for her alone, but were absolutely capable of sending a bolt of unease through her when they darkened in anger, almost disappearing from sight. It was still slightly disturbing to her when that occurred. She put a hand out to him. "Erik, I'm-"

"You will never let go of that, will you, Louise? I have begged your forgiveness for that particular faux pas, but doubtless I shall hear it again and again, even though you no longer have to worry about that Italian goat making your life miserable!"

"After drugging me to accomplish it," she spat.

He stared at her, his gaze flat. "Very well. I shall take myself off until such time as you can look at me without that curl to your lip that I find so unattractive."

"My _lip _is unattractive to you? Just my lip, husband? You really should be more careful with what you call unattractive," she whispered.

He glared at her for another long moment, and she stood her ground, but the hurt he was feeling made inroads on his anger. He turned and stalked into the hallway, and she trailed behind him, her anger just getting started. "Oh, yes, that's right! You are doing what you always do so well- running away! Go on then. Leave. See if I care what you do!" She stared at his rigid back as he went out the door, then turned and walked straight to their room and threw herself on the bed. She cried herself into a light doze, waking for dinner when Maria came home. Her aunt took one look at her niece's puffy eyes, lack of appetite, and Erik's empty chair. She said nothing.

That night, Louise changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed, grabbing his pillow and holding it close to her chest, knowing she would be awake most of the night waiting for him to return. Around one o'clock she fell into an uneasy sleep, but awakened instantly when the mattress dipped, and an arm slid around her waist, pulling her back against him. She stiffened at first when he lifted her heavy fall of hair away, his cool mouth finding the back of her neck and placing fervent kisses there. She soon relaxed, as his touch brought comfort with it.

"I know you meant well. I know it! Pride is what I have in excess. I couldn't very well let my wife find me employment, could I? Will you forgive your little husband?"

She heard the anxiety in his voice; as heartsore as she had been, she forgave him in that instant. Of course she did. His wheedling and soft tone could always put her into a better mood. Her manipulator! He played her as easily as he played that old violin of which he was so inordinately fond, but at least she was aware of it. She never truly forgot what Erik had been capable of in the past. Most feared man in Mazanderan? Yes. The ghost of the Garnier? Yes, again. But his present occupation trumped them all- Louise's husband. She turned over and slid her arms around his neck, placing her cheek against his. She nibbled on his ear lobe, and he shivered in delight.

"Where have you been, you odious man? I've been worried sick."

"In the garden with the cat."

"Oh, no! I only had to go out the kitchen door to find you?" she whispered, trembling a little in the cold room.

"Where else would I go?" he said in a low voice, tucking the blankets around her. "Everything I need or want is right here."

"I never want to fight with you again! I was so miserable," she confessed, as her fingers lightly traced the bones of his face.

Her words released something hot and aching in his thin chest, and he began rubbing her back in slow circles. "Louise?"

"My love?"

"Do I get my pillow back?" and her only answer was a watery chuckle.

They had had a few very tense moments, and a few shouting matches, their stubborn natures not giving ground easily, and they would clash with one another to the point that Maria would reluctantly join in and counsel reason. Most times though, one or the other would beg forgiveness, and the apologies and tears would turn into a different passion altogether.

She had danced for him.

Erik had played accompaniment on the violin while she moved provocatively around the room, her slender body speaking to him alone as she swayed and dipped, showing her love for her husband in the graceful movements she invented on the spot, matching the rhythm of his clever hands to her dancing feet. And he was enchanted by her all over again, want of her making inroads on his equilibrium as his bow slid across the strings. He kept pace with her sensuous performance, which did much to fan the flames of desire. At last she collapsed in his arms, and they began a new dance- one as old as time itself.

Back in the present, she now touched his face, an act which nearly unmanned him every time she did so. Her fingers loved him as they stroked and caressed that which he kept hidden from the rest of the world. But not her- never her.

"Let us retire for the night, wife. I have another gift for you," he whispered against her palm.

"What about the dishes?"

"They will wait. I cannot."

* * *

The sky had darkened considerably, and the first fat drops of rain hit the pavement as she alighted from the carriage and made her way into the rue Scribe. They weren't returning to the apartment until the following morning. A good thing too, she reasoned. This would be a special moment and she wanted privacy for them. _Just in case his reaction is decidedly negative. _

She heard the piano as she approached the door he had left open for her; just another of the thoughtful things he did for his wife. He was that kind of man.

She stripped off her gloves as she entered the small foyer, and he turned around on the bench. His hair was mussed as it usually was when the notes wouldn't untangle in his head; he became frustrated, and would repeatedly rake a hand through the thin strands, standing them on end. Louise would sometimes giggle at the sight he presented, and Erik would stare balefully at her in frustration; he had been abandoned by his muse and it was no laughing matter. This time, however, a look of relief lit his yellow eyes.

"Ah, it is time you returned! I was about to come looking for you." He peered closer, noticing the lack of color in her face. "Louise? What's wrong ?" He got up immediately and was beside her in that rapid way that he had, reaching for her hands. "What is it?" he asked sharply, alert to the mixture of excitement and tension which now sat upon her face. He said nothing more as he helped her off with her coat.

She shivered in reaction, she was a little queasy at the moment, but so happy. _She _was happy; his possible reaction caused a twinge of unease, and she quickly cut it off; best not go down that particular road just yet. She finally looked up at him, no longer able to stem the words which were fighting to get out. Her eyes were filled with a warm light.

To Erik, her lips appeared nearly bloodless, and he was frightened for some unnameable reason. No, he wanted to cry out- _don't say it. I beg you, Louise. Do __not__ say it._

Once the words left her mouth, their world would change forever. She gave them life, "I am with child."

* * *

**I see you all made it to the bottom! Hang in there. We're on the countdown now. I can see an itty bitty light at the end of the tunnel ;) **


	42. Chapter 42

He said nothing, only stood there and stared uncomprehendingly at her as though she had just spoken gibberish. It was the same woman who had left here two hours ago- there was no doubt about that. The same shining brown hair with that touch of red in it; he loved to join her when she washed it, working the lather in, his strong fingers massaging her scalp, her sighs of pleasure its own music. He studied her face even closer. Same hazel eyes, their color often taking on the shadings of her dress, or even the mood she was in- dark with passion as she stared up at him in the night, or sparking with anger when he sometimes pushed her too far. At the moment, they were a deep blue.

How he loved her.

He was terrified.

"No," he muttered in a monotone, wondering how such a commonplace utterance could sound so sinister. "No, Louise. What is this foolishness?" but he stared at her as certain incidences began to make more sense. She had been sick one afternoon after lunch, and although he had forced her to lie down in her dressing room until it passed, he had thought no more of it when she recovered quickly, showing no other ill-effects. But there had been a few times in the past month when a meal had not agreed with her, and he had fixed peppermint tea to settle her stomach. He cringed inwardly, remembering her breasts of late- his enjoyment of them, and how they had seemed a bit fuller; he'd decided she was simply maturing into more womanly curves. What a damned fool he had been. All this time she was increasing before his very eyes. His fear grew when he contemplated what it could mean for them. For _her._

He had asked her to inform him when her menses returned and contrarily she had not. Willfully it would seem, which was so typical of Louise. He could only stare at her in numb disbelief that she would keep something of this nature from him. "Explain this, if you will. We should have had this conversation a few months ago, I would hazard to say."

His voice was soft and gentle, his beautiful tones always a pleasure to her ears. But oh, his eyes. They were not. She turned away from that piercing gaze and ignored him while she worked to keep calm, unpinning her hat with shaking hands, the feeling of elation dying by slow degrees. She still felt the echoes of the ebullience present from the news the doctor had just given her; _that_ couldn't be taken away from her, but fast replacing her happiness was a creeping unease. Her fingers were clumsy removing her hat; nothing in her movements revealed anything of the lithe dancer.

"Answer me, if you please."

"Yes, but first I-I'll fix us some tea. I have need of it." She walked past him and went to the kitchen, the very same kitchen she had entered that morning to find it neat and tidy, the dishes from their anniversary dinner the night before, washed and put away. It looked the same, but then again it wasn't. The hours had gone by and everything had changed. Her husband had been sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and the newspaper, and she had placed an affectionate kiss on the top of his head. The hours had fled from that moment on, never to return- but oh how she wished they could.

She had been so happy after being told that what she considered at first to be a chronic bout of indigestion, had in reality been something quite different, and held her joy inside until she thought she would burst. She had said nothing to Erik about her decision to visit the doctor, for Louise well knew how he worried. She hadn't even confided in Maria- her husband deserved to be the first to know. She _had _surreptitiously questioned her aunt when she started to feel the other small changes taking place in her body, using a fictional dancer at the Garnier for her interest. She had felt tired a little more often of late, actually looking with longing at her sofa after lunch, and trips to the water closet were more numerous throughout the day. But her menses hadn't returned at any time in the past two years, and it was no wonder she hadn't seriously considered a pregnancy. The signs were there, but the return of her courses were not, so she kept quiet with her suspicions until confirmed by Dr. Alvery. Her sigh was harsh. She should have prepared herself for this. Erik had been adamant that there be no children from this union, but she had discounted much of that as the selfishness of a newly married man. Apparently it was simply selfishness. She had nearly forgotten his words from a couple of years ago. _Erik does not share._ Two years should have mellowed him to the possibility of a child. It had not.

He trailed her to the kitchen, for once so confused, he was unable to think of what to say. Which was a blessing really. He had no wish to open a Pandora's box which could let loose a string of withering invective that would have no end. It would not help this situation at all. He watched her with a morbid curiosity, as though she was about to begin changing before his very eyes. His Louise...becoming bloated with his monster seed. He cringed from that interior eye, wondering if she would require an attic room or a cellar to hide _it_ away. She was wrong, he decided. There was no child.

She went through the homey tasks which her hands performed several times a day. Water in the kettle. Kettle on the stove. Tea leaves in the pot. Sugar, cream, and lemon arranged on the tray, along with the fragile china cups and saucers. Delft blue- she had always admired them.

"Louise? Please...tell me I am mistaken," hoping he was merely having one of his flights of fancy. For once, his mental aberrations would be welcome.

She could feel his expressive eyes drilling into her back and she turned to him then...

...this man she loved beyond all else. Husband. Friend. Lover. Her sweet Erik.

He could only stare at her, a bitter half smile hovering on his mouth. She loved to tease him, and he was her willing foil, always hungry for the affectionate banter he had come to enjoy so much, but even Louise wouldn't find this to be amusing. He studied her face a little closer, a small crease forming itself between his eyes. "I think you had better explain this, for I fear you or I must be touched in the head a little. I _thought_ you said-"

"Yes, I know what I said. It's true." She kept her hands busy, never looking up at him- afraid to see the censure in his gaze. If she did, she would fall apart and they needed to discuss this calmly.

His eyes had taken on the gleam of awareness, and he slowly shook his head. "No," he whispered in horror. "No, no, no. It is _not _true," knowing it was. "How?"

She leaned against the sink and folded her arms over her abdomen, the move not lost on him. "Why, in the usual way. You and me together. We've done it often enough, but I would be happy to explain the process to you. You put your-"

"That's enough!" he said sharply. "You know exactly what I mean. Explain."

"Very well," her chin going up as she observed his rising ire. "The doctor said I must have begun ovulating with no outward sign that my menses had started again," she replied wearily. "You caught me at just the right time, it would seem."

"And you wished to be impregnated, therefore you didn't do as I implored you to do! Come to me for an herbal infusion. Did I not ask you to do that? Instead, you came to me for my seed," he hissed, staring at her as though she had gone insane. "Why?"

"How could I come to you when I wasn't even aware of them beginning? Am I not making myself perfectly clear?"

"If you would have taken the stoneseed extract as I asked you to do two years ago, this would not be happening. Once a day in the morning was all it took. At this very moment you may have condemned an innocent child to this," he snarled, shoving his face closer to hers.

"No. Not condemned. Never that." She turned from him and took the kettle from the stove, pouring it over the leaves before picking up the tray. "Let's go sit in the parlor."

He put a hand on her arm. "Tea solves everything, eh, Louise? It will not solve this."

Her eyes filled with hot tears and she shook her head. "You should be happy at this moment. Not incensed. Why aren't you happy?" she cried. "It was not planned on either of our parts, but it is a fact and we need to deal with it."

"Yes, and God help the little mite if it takes after its sire." He scrubbed a hand across his face, wishing mightily he could just as easily scrub away his spawn.

"We will love our baby regardless."

He dropped his hand from her arm and backed away, seeing his life with her coming to an awful end. "No. _You_ will not! I am proof of that, Louise. Fine words now, but what will you do in the face of its deformity? What will you do when you look upon the face of your child, and find a tiny gargoyle staring back? You will hate it, and you will hate me for putting it there!" Neither of them acknowledged the bone dry sound of the sob which left his throat. He turned and walked swiftly into the parlor. Louise dropped the tray onto the table, the little milk pitcher spilling into the dish of lemon slices, and ran after him.

"I..._we_...did nothing wrong! It is a baby...our baby!"

"Erik does not want one!" he thundered.

"Oh, but Louise does!" she shouted back. "And why wouldn't she? She loves her husband so very much and wishes to please him in all things!" her sarcasm thick as treacle.

"Yes," he sneered. "I can readily see how much you wish to please me. Look how well you have done so far!"

She glared a warning at him. "This child will have all of my love, regardless of who he or she resembles. Even if you cannot find it in your heart to love your own child, I will. You need to accept this and stop thinking only of yourself and how it impacts you! Perhaps think of me while you are at it."

"I _am _thinking of you! I think of nothing _but _you. I can't abide the knowledge, that through my need for your love you might be...you...you could..." He closed his mouth with a snap, knowing that in his anger he had said too much already. He regarded his wife with carefully veiled eyes.

"I really don't think I have anything more to say. This child is a fact and there is nothing you can do to change it."

They were practically nose to nose, Erik bent from the waist, peering into her face as though quite certain the wrong woman stood in front of him. "Then we seem to be in a dilemma," he replied harshly and turned from her, walking quickly to the door. He snatched at his fedora as he walked by the hall table, inadvertently hooking a finger on one of her many hats instead. His hand closed on it, crushing the crown of tiny silk flowers without a second thought, and tossed it into a corner never slowing down. He didn't require a damned hat.

"Oh, there is no dilemma. In approximately seven months time, one of us will get their wish, and I can tell you unequivocally...it will not be you!" She advanced on him, grabbing one thin arm, as though she could keep him with her by simply hanging on.

"I will not listen to this!" and he shook her off, never realizing in his need to get away that she was off balance. Louise gave a squeak of dismay as she tried to right herself, but her feet refused to find purchase, and she skidded backward, landing hard on her backside. Horrified, he was on his knees in an instant.

"L-Louise!" He put a hand to her cheek, and she swatted it away. "I didn't mean it! Come, sweetling," and ignoring her protests, he pulled her into his arms and carried her to the sofa, putting her gently down. He knelt in front of her. "Does it hurt anywhere?" his tone anxious. He grabbed one of her hands, contrite and humble, and even though she tugged on her hand, he held on and placed frantic kisses to it.

She could have told him that only her pride had suffered, but mulishly, she ignored him, her eyes shining disturbingly as she thought of her earlier happiness and how he had snuffed it so very easily. Grimly, she stared at him. "Weren't you on your way somewhere? Don't let me stop you!"

He stared at her, all of his considerable anguish in his eyes, his earlier anger vanishing like smoke in a breeze. "Don't," he whispered, his distress achingly apparent. "I am sorry. So very sorry." He leaned forward and put his head in her lap, his arms circling her waist in desperation. "I would never harm you, Louise. You know that, d-don't you?"

She sat stiffly and watched him as he burrowed his head against her stomach, against the new life fluttering there, and felt nothing but resentment toward him. She remained silent.

At last he raised his eyes to hers, frightened by her stillness. "Louise?" He rocked back on his heels at the angry glitter of her eyes. "I am sorry," he repeated helplessly.

"I am too. For ever thinking the two of us could spend a lifetime together," she whispered, so low he barely heard her.

But he _had._

"You are mine by law. You _will _spend a lifetime with me. You vowed to do so," he warned.

"The law can be changed, Erik. You know that."

"Never."

"Then, are you ready to accept our child, _husband_?"

"I accept the fact that there is to be one," as he tried to backpedal from his earlier stance.

"That is not good enough." She shut her eyes at his stricken look; he had taken her shining moment and ground it to dust beneath his heel. She wrapped her arms around her waist and shook her head. "Why can't you be happy and p-proud like other men? Why must you be so difficult?" her voice full of unshed tears.

_Ah, but you know why, don't you, Louise? Stop being such a termagant. You knew all along he wasn't the same as other men; you knew it- stop kicking him for being the very man you have loved all along. _She turned away from the voice of reason, her anger still overruling her good judgment; there was no room for his hurt at the moment...she was still too busy with her own.

He made a sound of distress deep in his throat and got to his feet, feeling lost and uncertain. He started backing away from her. "I ruin everything. Everything. Even your love. Even that." He turned for the door, her harsh words over-riding his common sense.

He wanted her to stop him from leaving. _Aching_ for her to stop him. He didn't want to go, but he had started this particular little contretemps, and with a last miserable look backward, stumbled to the door, his usual fluidity missing.

She glared at his retreating back, and if she had been holding something, _anything_, she would no doubt have thrown it at him. The thought was no sooner there, when it was gone, replaced by shame. She wouldn't have been the first one to throw things at him, and pain lanced through her. Why couldn't she stay angry with him, instead of retreating into empathy? She stomped one foot at his extreme stubbornness and intractability. She spied the mask on the small table beside his chair and snagged it, twirling it above her head with one finger poked through an eye hole.

"Erik," she called softly.

He turned back hopefully. He abhorred the thought of leaving her.

"You forgot this," and sent it sailing neatly across the room where it struck him in the chest, falling at his feet.

His hand flew up to his face, so used to her acceptance of it, he had forgot the mask wasn't there. He bent and scooped it up, crushing it in his fist, and with a last mournful glance, he turned on his heel, nearly running from the house.

She numbly stared at the door he had just gone through, wondering why there hadn't been some hint of their lives derailing in the way they had. Some portent to prepare them for this. A raven alighting on the ground nearby. The arrangement of tea leaves at the bottom of her cup. The earth opening beneath her feet... _Something. _She dragged herself to his chair and curled up in it, staring sightless into the fireplace, thinking listlessly that he hadn't taken his overcoat. He would get wet, and he didn't need to come down with pneumonia again. She wiped her streaming eyes and nose on her sleeve and sat in the quiet house, wondering in which direction he had gone. Although he had been relatively peaceful for the past two years, with Erik, given his volatile nature, one never knew. This was her fault. She had handled him badly, underestimating his aversion to a child. She never underestimated his need for her love though. He could never have enough of it, or get close enough, and Louise was quite certain, if he could absorb her into his very skin, he would do so.

She never thought he would consider his own child to be competition for her love, but why wouldn't he? Knowing her husband as well as she did, she should have realized his bizarre reasoning when it came to a baby of their own. It wasn't just the chance of deformity- Erik had merely told the truth. He didn't like to share.

Based on that alone, she was perfectly certain _when _the deed had taken place. She rested her cheek on the arm of his chair and sighed, casting her mind back two months ago, to the day she asked him about Don Juan Triumphant. It was on a night when they were staying in the lake house and she watched him from the chaise longue as he repeatedly sounded out a bar on the organ.

"Why don't you work on Don Juan anymore?"

He didn't answer her right away; normally she kept quiet by his decree, but she was curious about a piece of music which he had labored over for years only to abandon. Her question in the midst of his creativity was not something she asked lightly, for it could lead to her banishment from the room. The coffin was gone and his former bedchamber had become his music room, the flowing Dies Irae now looking perfectly at home. She could have found somewhere else to do her reading, but she would rather do it in his presence; her and Jane Eyre usually ended up in the same room as her husband. And he preferred her there as well, but too much chatter, and his amber eyes would be gleaming with annoyance.

When she looked back on that night, she realized her innocent question had led to her baby. All because Erik had to prove a point.

That particular evening he was feeling a little mellow and answered her easily enough. "Because Louise loves her little husband and that is all he requires of life. The music is full of Erik's lust and despair." She was surprised when he winked at her. "The despair is gone, but the lust is still alive and well- for you, Louise. For you." His eyes gleamed with avarice, but a slight shake of the head, and he picked up his pen and looked at the composition sheet in front of him. "Now, if you will only stay quiet, I can get this-" He peered closely at what he had just penned in, and shook his head. "Ah, naughty girl. I have placed the tuba above the piccolo, and very clearly, that will not work. It drowns out the flute, thus giving it no purpose, you see."

"Yes, I see," she said fondly, "but really, I-" and stopped talking when he held up one pale finger.

She got to her feet with her book, and began tiptoeing out of the room, when he looked up. "Where are you going?"

"Leaving you in peace. I can read in the parlor."

"Nonsense. I like you here. Tell me why you are so curious about my opera." He swiveled around to face her, and she was amused to see a smear of red ink on his bony chin.

She shrugged and set her book down. "I only asked because I have never heard any of it. You always refused to play it for me."

He kneaded the back of his neck and tossed his pen down. "It burns, Louise. It is salacious and it burns. I have _told _you this before."

"I'm sure it does for someone receptive to it. Sensitive."

"You don't think you would be..._receptive?" _a sly tone creeping into his voice.

_ "_Your music will always move me, darling, for you are a maestro, but take me from my own mind?" She smiled and shook her head.

"A simple repetitious cadence can force an army to march to their deaths. Ever thought why that is so? A fife and drum, or the skirl of bagpipes can lend a false sense of destiny to a man- a false sense of his own immortality. The rolling chords of a Cavaille-Coll can have an entire congregation seeing God among His flock."

Louise swallowed a smile as the teacher in her husband took over, and he warmed to his subject. She was perfectly fine with it. She loved listening to him.

"Music is more powerful than you think, and you foolishly underestimate it, Louise. It can call forth tears of joy or tears of utter sadness; it is a powerful force in its own right and has been since the dawn of man. You, who danced so beautifully to its melodies in Swan Lake should know that as well as I. It wouldn't be nearly as breathtaking without the aching strains of a violin or the beautiful clarity of the horn."

She hummed noncommittally and set down her book, daring to approach a composer at work. But he was hers, and she unhesitatingly walked up to him and wet a finger before gently applying it to the red smudge on his chin. She looped her arms around his neck, and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

"You are right! Of course you are. But music can't make one do something against their will, although I believe _you _believe it. That is all that matters. And now I think I will leave you to your work and get ready for bed," and with one last kiss, she smiled into his suddenly narrowed eyes and left the room.

She washed and changed into a nightgown and robe, curling up on the sofa in the parlor. She opened the book and was soon back with Jane and her Edward, when the blast of riotous sound smote her ears causing her to jump. With a hand to her chest, she listened to the swell of wanton notes pouring from the organ and marching onward into a cacophony of sensuousness from the very first measure, inviting her to come closer. Come closer and... The music invaded every pore- every nerve, her skin feeling as though it were crawling and suffocating beneath her nightwear. She fanned her face with her book...it _was_ getting warmer, wasn't it? She got to her feet, her book falling unheeded to the floor, and followed the sound as though led by the Pied Piper himself; it called to her- an infernal melody of pure want- pure _need_ to the music room. Her skin felt flushed, and she wished for a rush of cool air, her dressing gown already a casualty and lying discarded on the floor behind her; it had become far too warm, restricting her movements.

She opened the door and stood on the threshold as the notes swirled around her everywhere, nearly becoming solid matter, as though she could reach out and touch every single one. She took in her husband's painfully thin back bent over the organ as the melody swollen with an awful desire, leapt from his magician's fingers- his wonderfully dexterous hands. Hands which so easily conveyed his love and adoration as they stroked and played every key- caressed every sensitive nerve ending until she couldn't think- couldn't wait until he took her again and again- She snapped her head up and gave it a violent shake. Music. _THE_ music. It was Don Juan Triumphant. She was sure of it. She took a shaky breath and kept her eyes on his back hunched over in a frenzy of emotion, pouring his very soul into the earthy notes. She would be holding him any moment now; touching him as though it was the very first time- running her hands lightly up his spine and into his hair- hair as black as any crow's wing. She would put her lips to the nape of his neck, just so, and feel him shiver.

She wanted to feel him shudder against her.

Wanted his hands on her.

His mouth.

She licked suddenly dry lips, knowing intuitively what would quench her thirst. She stood beside him just as the music ended unexpectedly, leaving her ears bereft, as echoes of it quivered in the air on that last sinfully rich note. She reached for him just as he abruptly stood from the bench and turned, his eyes burning a promise that would be fulfilled before the hour became any older. In one liquid movement, they fell into each other's arms and his mouth claimed hers with a moan of relief. Her hands were moving through his hair with a sense of triumph, as she welcomed his plundering mouth which nipped and sucked at hers. With a sound of impatience, she leaned against him, leaned _into _him, her arms around his back, pulling him closer, as he walked her backward to the roomy chaise longue he had bought and placed there for just such a circumstance. His smile was wicked. One never knew.

"What are you grinning about, you devil?"

"My forethought," he muttered, and laid her down. The don had spoken and he proceeded to ravage his wife. She welcomed every bit of it.

He placed hungry kisses on her neck, as his hands began stripping her nightgown off, his thin mouth covering every inch of pale skin exposed to his gaze. His voice hoarse, "Con fuoco, my darling?"

Her breath caught in her throat, and she began tugging at his clothes, eager for his flesh. "Oh, yes. With fire," and followed him down into the feverish, blissful maelstrom.

* * *

"Well?" he whispered some time later, sprawled contentedly beside her. "Care to express your thoughts after the fact?"

She left his arms and sat up suddenly, her skin rosy and flushed from his lovemaking. "Maestro," and folded her hands together, bending low over them. "I bow to your superior wisdom," and ruined it with a grin.

He tugged her back down, satisfied that he had proved his point. "Yes. Quite so. Quite so. The music called to your more hedonistic tendencies, and you answered, did you not?"

"Oh, wipe that insufferable smirk off your face! You know I did! But it is the most wanton piece of music I have ever heard." Louise slid a bare foot up his leg. "It is full of debauchery and wickedness, but despite that...wouldn't you like to finish it?" she implored, her hand traveling to his hip and alighting there, stroking with the tips of her fingers.

He was amused to hear her note of entreaty. "I _might _if you make it worth my while."

"Well, isn't that what I just did?" she retorted mildly. "It's magnificent, and you shouldn't have kept it from me all of this time!"

His hands tightened on her. "I will create something far better for you, Louise. Something to worship at your feet."

"I don't want you at my feet, Erik. I want you beside me. I want you playing Don Juan just for me."

"It is music bloated with every libidinous and erotic moment I never had- and there were many, as I am sure you can imagine," he said dryly. "I can not envision what would have happened when you first arrived back in Paris and wished to hear it played. I heartily doubt if the results would have been the same- you weren't precisely falling into my arms then."

"No, I wasn't," she agreed, satisfied and nearly purring with contentment, "But now I find it impossible to stay out of them, for I am the recipient of all of that repressed ardor," she scooted back down and slung her arm around his waist, "and I can only feel giddy with happiness that no other woman found out your closely guarded secret."

"Which is?" and she giggled when he arched an eyebrow at her.

"You really _are _Don Juan."

He snorted at this nonsense, but a warmth in his chest spread welcome fingers into his darkened soul. He was loved. He reached a hand out and pulled her head down onto his shoulder. "I find it hard to believe that the salacious don has taken the fancy of my Louise."

"It may be salacious, but it is extraordinary all the same. And you have more than aptly proved your point, you devil. I'm sure we will be requiring its infernal melodies again and again."

"I think I have created a monster who only wants Erik for his carnal talents."

"You must admit- there is a dire need for them," and she rolled on top of him, placing moist kisses across his narrow chest, her hand once again caressing his hip.

"I am just a bag of bones, Louise; hardly the type of anatomy to make you swoon. You, my girl, are slightly touched," he said with fond amusement, his long arms wrapping her securely in his embrace, making her feel safe and cherished.

"I know of one particular part of your anatomy that is quite remarkable, monsieur," her voice husky.

"Show me," he whispered back.

And her hand continued its journey.

* * *

Which led her to the unshakable belief that their child was conceived during that night of dark music and abandon. Now if she could only convince him that this should be a happy occasion instead of a reason to run away. She had more than enough love to share; her husband would still be the center of her universe; he would merely have to shift over a little and make room for his son or daughter. Given the opportunity, he would make a good father. She was sure of it.

She sighed, propping her chin on one hand as she listlessly considered fixing dinner- wondering if she would be eating it alone. Sleeping alone.

Sleeping. Or in Erik's case, a lack of it. She had noticed very soon after their first night together, that he slept lightly, prone to slipping in and out of slumber at the merest noise, whether she was getting out of bed or simply turning over. But when he did sleep, it was with an economy of movement as he always did, and would lie so still and noiseless, she would find herself nervously watching him, before sliding a hand to his chest, inevitably waking him up. Erik would blink once and tug her into his arms. Her husband was needy. Needy for her body, her touch- the physical signs of her love for him.

She would then snuggle into his arms, sorry for disturbing his rest. "Try to sleep," she said, her voice low. "I promise to lie perfectly still."

"It's not you," he replied, as he tucked the covers around her bare shoulders. "Dreams have a way of _forcing _me awake most nights."

"What kind of dreams?"

"Dark ones." He paused, and she kept quiet, thinking he'd gone back to sleep, only to have his voice drop quietly into the stillness of the room, "The dead do not rest very well, Louise," he had whispered, burrowing his head into her shoulder.

"What dead?" she asked, her arms around him.

"Mine."

"You...you mean those that you...that died at your-"

"Those that I killed...yes," and rubbed his face against her soft breast. The nightmare was already receding into murky corners where they hid away for the most part, only making an appearance when he was least prepared for their accusing faces.

"You just need to reflect on good things until sleep comes. Try it and you will discover it for yourself."

"I was not aware that was all I required for a night's repose," the sneer in his voice much weaker than it had been in the past. For which she was thankful.

"All right, I was being naive, I admit," and Erik grunted a reply as he relaxed into her arms. Louise tightened her hold on him, feeling an intense protectiveness surge through her. She had felt the tautness of his body easing as he clung to her and the comfort she provided, lulling him into a light doze. Her arms would eventually go numb, but she was afraid of waking him if she moved. Fervently, Louise wished her husband peaceful dreams for once.

She sighed now and stood up, shaking out her skirts, and stubbornly turned her mind from him. Their baby was a fact; Erik only needed time to get used to it. Once he returned, they could talk then, and he would have to listen.

For she would be blocking the door.

With her body.

* * *

Heavy rain pummeled him, the wind relentlessly driving stinging needles of it into his exposed skin. Icy water made its way down the back of his shirt, plastering it to his shoulder blades. He shivered and wasn't certain if it was from the weather or the reaction of how his day had become a waking nightmare. He wasn't even aware of where his footsteps were taking him, and within minutes, he was soaked to the skin. His feet literally dragged as he went further and further from his home- from his wife, miserably uncertain where to go.

He had been wrong revealing to her his aversion for a child. He had upset her. She was a woman, and women seemed to have a soft spot for all young things, most especially their own. He snorted as he swiped at the mixture of rain and tears in his eyes. Young things, not _ugly _things, and he was certain anything he sired would be hideous. He loathed himself for planting his seed where it could grow, and taint her love for him. It was precious to him, and without it he would surely wither and die. But he could deal with that, if need be. The absolute worst for him, the excruciating knowledge that was fueling his despair, was the idea that what he had sired, would inevitably take her away from him forever. The notion flickered through his consciousness, that he had the wherewithal to end this pregnancy before it could harm Louise, before it could suck the life from her, but he let it go. If she ever discovered his treachery, she would never forgive him. She would never forgive him for such blasphemy, for he had promised Louise he would never again give her anything without her knowledge and consent. To do so, would pound that last nail into the coffin of his marriage.

Once upon a time, he managed very well with little human interaction- without the soft touch of a woman's hands.

Once.

Those days of subsisting on small pleasures of music or the taste of fine wine were long gone. He knew what love felt like now; knew all of its subtle nuances and immeasurable joys. He would never live without it again.

His steps slowed down and stopped altogether as the panic tried to overtake him. An image of too much blood, and the screams of a woman in agony, her distended belly swollen with a child that refused to be born, caused him to suck in a harsh breath. He placed a hand over his eyes, shuddering helplessly.

"No. No, no, no, no." His sigh was ragged as his feet began moving again, wanting only to go back and beg her forgiveness. They had been happy together- for a scarecrow of a man, he had found that they fit together very well. Bedtime had easily become his favorite time. He had loved spooning with her as they settled into sleep for the night, curling himself around her, and burying his face in her hair; hair which always smelled so sweet- lemon verbena she had told him. He had made her a parfum of it in his workshop, adding bergamot oil and a touch of lavender and presented it to her in a crystal bottle. She had hugged him tightly and covered his blighted face in kisses. Such a small thing, to be sure, but worth so very much to a man once accustomed to spending his days...and nights alone. He had basked in her love and care, and in return had doted on Louise. A wife. Erik had a wife the same as any other man. And now...

He should never have touched her. Should never have desired her so badly, or wanted this joy that he had been so fortuitously given. These years with Louise more than made up for the loneliness and despair his life had been, but he should never have expected it. The one good thing to ever happen to him, and he just might be the cause of losing it forever. Childbirth was a battle that did not always end in victory. He knew that so very well.

He was living in a tenuous bubble of reality; he had realized that truth not so very long ago. He would never take one kiss...one hug from her for granted. It was that simple. Every one of them meant the world to him. But madness lurked, never far away; it was crouching behind every tender word...every smile. Without her, his fragile sanity would end.

The rain was finally starting to lessen, but he was soaked through and through. Without conscious thought, his steps had taken him in a direction he never would have considered since his marriage. A source of comfort he refused to examine too closely, or why he even sought it out. He hunched his narrow shoulders against the chill and lengthened his stride.


	43. Chapter 43

**A/N I just want to say thank you ****to everyone who took the time to**** review, ****follow ****or ****favorite over the course of ****Journey****. It's been a right pleasure _talking _with all of you :) Special thanks to the engine which drove this story forward- Gaby1964, MarilynKC, ArdentAngel, E.M.K.81, Phangirl4044, and FantomPhan33. Thanks guys for showing up every week. ****You made this endeavor fun. **

* * *

He had walked erratically in the driving rain, unmindful of time passing as he shambled along. Afternoon gave way to early evening, the gloomy streets for the most part, empty of sensible people with no wish to become wet. He was lost in nightmarish thoughts, and barely cognizant of just where his feet were taking him. With no little surprise, he found himself standing in front of the apartment building near the old palace in the rue de Rivoli. He hesitated in an agony of indecision and nearly turned around to leave, before taking a deep breath and finally knocking on the door of Nadir Khan. He waited impatiently, already soaked to the skin from the heavy downpour which was only just beginning to let up.

Darius at last answered the door and was taken aback by the sodden man who stood there blinking wetly at him. A murderous figure to many of those living in Mazanderan; a hero to Darius's family. Abu-Uzraeel had done what no one else had the courage to do- defy the sultana and live to tell the tale. Darius was almost certain it had been the masked one who dispatched Kohinoor and sent her on her way to Hell. His family had lived in relative peace ever since, and his nephew's death had been avenged. Which was why he had requested of his master, the task of bringing him back to health after Erik's savage whipping all those many years ago.

"Salam Agha-ye Erik. Khosh Amadid!" and bowed in deference.

"Kheili mamnoon," Erik replied, smoothing his wet hair back with a skeletal hand. He was dripping. "Your master at home, Darius?"

"Most certainly I am. Even to you, Erik." Nadir stood in the doorway of the sitting room wearing trousers and a bronze brocade dressing gown, bright with embroidered silver leaves. A gift from Maria. He was holding a book with his finger marking the place, obviously having been interrupted in a quiet evening at home. The Persian looked him over, noting the soggy clothing and wet mask. "Swimming in the Seine tonight? I am sure that was invigorating."

"Cats and dogs, daroga. Cats and dogs. It is pouring."

Nadir observed the man standing and dripping in his tiny parlor, noting his defeated air and slumped shoulders. He waved him to the sofa. "Darius, some brandy for our guest." He winced at the rivulets of water pooling on his carpet at Erik's feet and sighed. "And a towel."

He sat down, mindful of his wet clothes, and gratefully accepted the towel Darius brought him. He turned briefly from the Persian and lifted the mask, carefully wiping his face. When he was done, he turned back to his host who had resumed his seat.

Khan waited for the masked man to state his business. He waited in vain as those golden eyes silently returned his gaze, but what he saw in their yellow depths made him uneasy. It was the look of a man mourning the loss of what he holds dearest in the world. "I won't even try to guess why you are soaked to the skin."

"I walked here."

"You _walked _from the Garnier? In this foul weather? Are you mad?"

"Apparently so."

"Well, what brings you out on a night like this?"

"Rumination and reflection," he replied tiredly.

"Come again?"

"I am to be a father." It was spoken bluntly with little to no inflection. He could have been discussing the weather.

Nadir, who had nearly broken out in a huge grin, sobered quickly at his grim demeanor. "Why, this is wonderful news! A child is a physical reminder of the love Louise bears for you. It is surely not the end of the world." Knowing his idiosyncrasies, Khan was still curious as to why Erik looked so mournful. Well, more so than usual, he amended. "You are supposed to be delighted at this auspicious occasion."

"Yes, so I was informed," and he snorted sardonically. "Imagine a tiny replica of me sitting before you, daroga. Delight would be the very last emotion you would be feeling, I dare say."

The Persian waved a hand in dismissal. "And here you go again! Off and running with your penchant for doom and gloom. Women quicken with life, Erik, and husbands puff out their chests in pride at this visible evidence of their virility. That has always been the way of it. Why, at one time in my village, such news would have generated much singing and dancing! I believe you are the first in my experience to look at a child so...dismally."

"It seems to be a grave fault of mine," and he hunched in on himself, "not to be _happy _the same as other men," his voice breaking at the end.

"Louise?"

"Yes." He took the proffered drink from Darius and wrapped spidery fingers around the glass.

"Well, why aren't you?"

Erik delicately sniffed his drink. "Your taste in brandy has improved, I see. Before I answer your question, picture this, if you will. A fine Sunday afternoon, and I and my wife are taking a stroll; it is an exceptional day for it. Louise is quite gravid with my child, but she is happy...therefore I am happy. We have no particular destination in mind; it is simply a pleasant stroll."

Khan blew out an exasperated breath. "Bearing in mind, of course, that you are hardly one to walk among the citizenry with or without Louise."

Erik heaved a tired sigh. "That is beside the point. Allow me to finish, if you please. Do the good people we pass by look benignly upon us, ready with their congratulations? I am to have an heir. A child created from our love. Do they extend good wishes to us?" He shook his head. "Not at all. No. Not at all, daroga. They take one look at me, and they are repulsed...they look at Louise and are filled with horror and pity. The poor woman, they say. Obviously leg shackled to me due to a very bad bargain with the devil."

He shrugged one shoulder, holding the brandy in a tight grip, pale knuckles blanched even whiter. "I do not wish for her to have it," and tossed back his drink in one gulp. "Does that answer your question?"

The daroga stared at the other man as though he had taken leave of his senses. Which in Erik's case, wasn't so very far-fetched. "Shouldn't you have thought of that before you-?" He cleared his throat and refused to look the other man in the eye. "What I mean to say is...before you decided to prove _your_ virility?"

He shook his head and mumbled into his empty glass, "She went and got a child behind my back."

The Persian snorted at this idiocy from one prone to such idiocies. "I am sure even with the two of you being so..._agile_, that is an impossibility," as he tried to scrub from his mind, the bizarre image which popped up.

He stared uncomprehendingly at Nadir for a moment. "What are you going on...? Oh," and his mouth quirked in a smile of remembrance for some of their more memorable moments in bed, or as the case may have been- on the old sofa in her dressing room, which looking back, had been no small feat. Not an easy thing to accomplish for a couple as tall as they, but it had been worth every contortion- every precarious position to reach that state of ecstasy _she _could always place him in. The night he played Don Juan for her had been especially meaningful- he would remember it with a particular fondness for as long as he drew breath.

The Persian pointedly cleared his throat, seeing the gleam in those yellow eyes, and that mouth suddenly wearing an evil grin. "You can reminisce later, Erik," he said dryly. It occurred to him then, his reason for being abroad on this wet night. He stared at him with growing suspicion. "Out with it. What did you do?"

He wearily shook his head, appearing to the daroga much like a man toiling beneath too heavy of a burden. "Not nearly enough, it seems. My Louise is not happy with me at the moment."

"She insisted that you leave? Well, how can you blame her if you informed the mother of your child that you don't want it?"

His shoulders slumped even more. "My mind has not had any peace since she told me."

"_Your _mind doesn't work the same as the rest of us, Erik. Our thought processes have hills and valleys, whereas yours consists of mountain peaks and deep caverns that one explores at their own peril!" Nadir looked at him with reproach. "Only you would resent your own child."

"I do not resent it as much as _fear _it."

"Why?"

"Babies have been known to kill their mothers, daroga. Childbirth is not an enterprise for every woman."

"Ah."

Erik narrowed his eyes at the Persian. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It is not jealousy or concern for the child's parentage that moves you to this..._protest _then. It is fear for your wife," and at the slight nod, Nadir said in a softer voice, "not every woman has such difficulty, my friend. It is a natural function for them and most do just fine."

As if to counter this bit of sage wisdom, Erik coldly replied, "Louise is not _most _women. She is everything to me. That places her far above the rest."

His misery shone brightly from his eyes, but Nadir was hard put to stop his exasperation. "Why must you take everything that is good in your life and make it into a tragedy? Too many hours perched in the dark above that stage of yours, I think. Life has become one large, gaudy opera to you!"

"Do you remember the shah-in-shah's youngest wife?"

Nadir was taken aback at this abrupt switch of subjects. Another area where Erik excelled - meandering thought processes, forcing the rest of them to try and catch up, but the daroga cast his mind back and dredged up a memory; a slip of a girl with large doe-like eyes lined with kohl, and waist length, shining brown hair. Ah."Remember? She nearly got you killed, if I recall." He grunted. "She quite enjoyed her favored status, didn't she? And happy making the other wives jealous, most especially Kohinoor. I was always surprised that the sultana didn't have you poison...Farrokh, wasn't it?"

"Yes," he said, running the towel over the top of his head "she should never have conceived. She was just a tiny thing and that is why the shah wished for me to provide her with a contraceptive. He wanted to enjoy his little dove, and have no interruptions to his pleasure. There wouldn't have been any either, if she had taken the stoneseed extract as it was intended." He leaned forward, elbows on long thighs and rubbed at his temples. "She didn't care for the taste so she stopped taking it."

"And nearly cost you your head when she died giving birth." Nadir now realized where this conversation was going. "How can you compare that child to Louise?"

"Louise isn't a child, Khan. I am well aware of that, but my wife is not a large woman. She is narrow through the hips and not built for child-bearing. She is well made for dancing, to be sure, but not pushing a baby out into the world." His eyes were bleak as he regarded the Daroga. "Which is why I wanted her to take the tincture. We were happy, my Louise and I. I d-don't want her leaving me," he replied, working to keep his voice even, and failing.

"Erik-"

"Word got around when Farrokh went into her labor- there was...there was much suffering. I was invited, or should I say, _dragged_ into her chambers to witness her agony for myself." A long shudder raced up his spine, and his eyes were haunted. "She labored for many hours, getting weaker; her body worn out and no longer able to aid her own child into the light of day." He glanced at the Persian with eyes full of fear. "Birthing a child is a bloody business, daroga. Literally and figuratively."

"I wasn't aware that you were present for that. The shah was indeed upset to allow it. It was a very good thing for you that her serving woman came forward and explained Farrokh's unwillingness to take the contraceptive."

Erik could only nod in answer, and the Persian conjured up a face. "She was a member of Darius's family, wasn't she?" Another weary nod. "It would seem your defiance of the sultana was repaid with interest."

Privately, Nadir wondered at a man quite used to killing, becoming faint-hearted at the sight of a woman struggling to give birth. The favored assassin of the shah and the sultana's partner in death had dealt with much worse over time. But he wisely kept this observation to himself. He suddenly thought of Louise and what Erik may have said to her upon hearing her news. He said sharply, "Did you share any of these morbid fears with her?"

"Of course not! Do you think I want to frighten my own wife? She thinks I am merely jealous of it. I should never have let her oppose me in this. It is my fault that she now carries my...my child. "

"You suffer needlessly, Erik. Times have changed and doctors have more knowledge than they did- what? Twenty-five years ago? Either way, your attitude will not help her. It is her first, and I am certain she was looking for a sign of joy from you, not being left alone on the day she tells you. Did she suspect how you truly feel?"

"I-I did not show any fear, if that's what you mean. I walked out, but like you, she thinks I am merely selfish. I suppose I am," he whispered, and put a shaking hand up to his eyes. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"She will be fine. As usual, you over-reacted."

He stared at Nadir, his terror no longer hidden. "I do not need a child taking her away from me." He clenched his hands into tight fists, not wishing to break down completely in front of the Persian. He had always strived to maintain iron control; to show weakness to anyone in the past meant compromising his safety- it was a hard fought lesson and difficult to shake. But he had gravitated to this man in the first place, not sure if it was comfort or wisdom he was seeking in his anxiety. Perhaps both.

"If you persist in this idiocy it will be _you _who drives her away! She needs her husband's support...not his certainty that a disaster is just ahead. You left her after she broke the news to you?"

"Yes." He put his head in his hands and took a shuddering breath. "I am no good for her. I am not a good husband."

The Persian studied Erik's bowed shoulders, that thin back which never seemed to bend unless it had something to do with Louise. The world would forever revolve around his wife. All else paled before that fact. "In the two years you have been married, I have seen a woman deeply in love with her husband. That tells me more than anything, that you are doing something right."

Erik raised his head and looked at him. "Desist, if you please, daroga, or you will cause me to blush," he sneered, but the words had no bite to them.

"I had my doubts when she came looking for you two years ago," ignoring the other man's feeble attempt at sarcasm. "But you have always shown much courage in the face of adversity. Why stop now? Go home to your wife and rejoice in her news, and let nature take its course."

"What if it looks like me?"

The Persian took a deep breath and reached for patience. "She loves the father, why wouldn't she love his child? Only an unnatural mother does not. Your mother was one such woman, Erik. Don't judge all of them by her. You have a gift in Louise's love. Do not squander it."

He sat up and looked closely at the Persian with the faintest gleam of amusement in his unnatural eyes. It was mixed with a tiny bit of welcome relief, Khan was happy to see. "I knew I could count on you to make light of my concerns," and rising to his feet, headed for the door, his shoes squelching as he crossed the floor. "I am going home to my wife," and after uttering it, felt a shred of peace stealing over him.

Praise Allah, Nadir thought, shaking his head in exasperation and following him to the door. "I was not making light of your concerns, Erik. You simply make too much of them," he retorted wearily. "I only strive for balance. Let Darius get you a carriage. You are already soaked through."

"I'll get one at the street corner." He turned to the Persian and had a momentary struggle within himself. Taking a deep breath, he said the words which had become stuck in his throat, "Thank you."

Before a stunned Khan could say a word, he had stepped out into the wet night and was gone. _There are still wonders to be found beneath Allah's sun and moon. I just witnessed one. Erik showing gratitude to me. To me!_

His grin disappeared as he regarded the rain which had slowed to a drizzle. "Have faith, my friend. Fate has finally begun to smile upon you. Embrace your happiness."

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head a fraction to place a kiss on it. "You heard?"

"Yes. Poor man! He tortures himself over everything he cannot control." She smiled up at him in the dim light. "You were wonderful with him, by the way."

"He was indeed upset to come to me and bare his torment. You are fond of Erik, aren't you?"

She seemed surprised by the question. "Yes. I am. He is a good man if treated decently. It is all any of us want, and something he has not been granted very often. Until now."

"He hasn't always deserved to be treated decently, Maria."

Her eyes were steady on him. "Yes, I know."

"Did Louise tell you this?"

"No. Erik did."

"He actually confided in you about his past?"

"He is not aware that I know any of this, Nadir. He talked in his delirium two years ago."

"How much do you know?"

"Enough."

"And this knowledge changes nothing for you?"

"How can one change a horrible past? He loves my niece more than anything in this world, and she loves him. That is good enough for me."

"Did you suspect that Louise is to have a child?"

Maria gathered the edges of her dressing gown closer, her face wreathed in a smile. "Some of her questions pointed in that direction, yes. I would have liked her to confide in me, but I understand...she wanted her husband to be the first to know. I do not blame Louise for that. A baby! A joyous occasion to have a little one to love and watch grow."

"_Is _she in any danger?"

Maria's smile faded. "I will not lie to you. There is always risk involved. But Louise is a Sorelli, and therefore made of finer stuff. She is a strong woman, is she not? She is married to that wonderful, tormented man. Of course she is strong! I only wonder if Erik can survive it?"

He pulled her into his arms and placed a kiss on her nose. "Oh, I think he will find becoming a father much easier to bear than considering me a member of his family," and couldn't stop his wry smile, "but I wish he had the choice. Are you sure you won't reconsider, Maria?"

"You are a dear man, Nadir, but you know perfectly well you enjoy your bachelorhood too much to give it up," she patted his hand affectionately, "and I have no wish to marry again."

"It is my loss then," but she didn't miss the flash of relief which crossed his face.

"You are however, my cherished friend, and a very good lover."

He put a hand to his chest and inclined his head. "Why, many thanks, dearest lady. Care to stay a while longer?"

"I wish I could, but I think I better go home and await the return of my niece and her terrified husband tomorrow. Perhaps I can help calm his fears."

"I'll see you home then."

Maria nodded and turned to get dressed, but hesitated and regarded the Persian. "His life has at last gone in the right direction. Love does come to those least expecting it, doesn't it?"

"Yes. To the most unlikely of people. Now if he can only extend that love to his child."

* * *

She wandered around the house, unable to sit still for very long, and found herself in front of the piano looking at his latest musical piece; a sonata he had told her. She glanced over it, studying the scrawled red notes in the margins; notes written to himself as he worked, sometimes tirelessly whenever the muse inspired him. She depressed the C note and dragged her thumb up the scale. Some evenings, she would lay down her book and watch her husband at work, before retiring for the night. She would tiptoe up behind him and place a light kiss to the back of his neck that often went unacknowledged. Usually though, he wouldn't linger past midnight; he told her once with a wicked smile, that he now had a woman in his bed and was loath to waste one minute of it.

He had bought an upright Erard piano for the apartment, and placed it in the parlor; Maria would listen as he formed notes into something distinctive, whether it was a nocturne or a livelier mazurka. At those times, she moved quietly around the house, fascinated by this process of writing music; Erik would become so engrossed in what he was doing, he ceased to notice her in the room, his world narrowed down to him and the piano. Maria privately thought of him as a maestro, the melodies at which he labored, becoming over time, intense and beautiful as she listened from the kitchen. Her ears were attuned to the ebb and flow of sound as hammer struck string, producing beautiful notes and pitches created in that complex head- given life with those expressive hands. At times it would become merely noise, jarring and dissonant, before going silent with a jangle of crashing chords, his hands slamming the keys in frustration and anger, only to be replaced with his voice as he angrily castigated himself- _and_ the piano. The first time she had heard this, she peeked wide eyed through the doorway to see a welter of papers on the floor, and Erik slumped over the instrument trying to stare it down. An inanimate object. Maria would smile at this and quietly close the door. Only a lover's spat. After whole minutes had gone by, the music would begin anew. With those lovely notes fueling her movements, she reckoned her alfredo sauce would be seasoned with richer flavor and felt wealthier herself for the experience. She had shared her observation of Erik at the piano with her niece. Louise knew exactly how her aunt felt- privileged to be a witness to this labor of love.

She fixed dinner, setting a place for her absent husband. She sat down at the round table and ate listlessly, crying a few weak tears, and feeling utterly sorry for herself. She looked across the table where Erik usually sat; he was a good conversationalist when he wished to be, and knew a bit about everything. She would be the first to admit that her husband's intelligence far outstripped hers, but she would listen and follow along as well as she could until the talk came round to France's politics, Paris in particular. Here her interest waned, her eyes beginning to cross. That's when she would slip off one of her shoes beneath the table, and run her foot up his thin leg and into his lap. How she loved to tease him. How he adored being teased. His words would grind to a halt as he silently contemplated his wife, before putting his hands around her foot and beginning to massage it. She had sighed in pleasure as his strong fingers kneaded and soothed the tiredness away after a long day on her feet; stroking his hand up her leg, kneading the calf muscle, and soon she was eagerly working her other shoe off and having her foot join its mate. He had glanced up at her then, grinning wickedly, knowing perfectly well he was boring her with politics. It had now become a ritual for them whenever they were staying in the lake house. She would lie on the sofa and put her feet in his lap, and he would dutifully and lovingly massage them.

She finally pushed her plate away, her appetite having fled, all the while listening for her husband. She fixed him a sandwich from the roast chicken she had for dinner, wrapping it in a napkin, before setting the kitchen to rights. Grabbing her book, she sat in Erik's chair to read until he came home, but try though she might, her interest wasn't there; every tiny noise had her starting and eying the door, her hope turning to ash in her mouth, when he didn't walk through it. She was by degrees angry, then worried, and would get angry once more as the minutes crawled by. Very soon, anger had vanished to be permanently replaced by worry.

Unable to stand the heavy quiet any longer, she stood up, her intention to get ready for bed, when her eyes fell on the only casualty of his temper, lying forlorn and forgotten in the corner where he had thrown it. "You owe me a hat, Erik," and chuckled at the inanity of it, even as more tears presented themselves. Her blue velvet hat with the crown of flowers and a single tiny peacock feather, was crushed beyond repair. She picked it up and smoothed a hand over it, before setting it carefully beside his gray fedora.

She listlessly washed, changing into her nightgown, and slid beneath the covers, looking plaintively at the empty side of the bed. She felt the start of fresh tears. "I'm becoming a simple-minded watering pot because of you, husband," she whispered. But how easy it was to become used to having him beside her all night; usually touching her in some way, whether spooned behind Louise with an arm curled possessively around her waist, or with her head on his shoulder. It was a requirement of his, for the ability to touch and be touched loomed large in Erik's perceptions of married life. He would most often, rise before the women, and bring his wife a cup of hot coffee while she got ready for her day. Erik reveled in the minutiae of everyday life, soaking it up and enjoying what many took for granted.

Sometimes his nights would not be peaceful, and he would awaken in the middle of the night, trying valiantly to stifle a scream. Those times, she would gather him close, brushing aside his initial reluctance to accept comfort from her, and talk quietly until his terror subsided, the ghosts of his past retreating for a time.

She punched his pillow in a brief fit of pique. "Your father is a stubborn, stubborn man! But oh, you'll find that out very soon for yourself. Don't misunderstand me, you will love him as I do, but you will need the patience of Job to do it." She smacked Erik's pillow again. "He is the most willful of men, and will ride rough shod over your feelings if you let him." After expending her violence on his pillow, she grabbed it and hugged it to her chest. It smelled of his soap. She inhaled deeply, comforted by the scent.

"Let me see if I can explain your papa to you so you may understand him," and she closed her eyes, conjuring up his lanky image. "He is a confusing mix of elegance and raw bones. He is very tall and walks fluidly- gracefully for one so thin. You may as well know, he can be dangerous and hateful, for I have seen _that_ side of him, but don't worry, he is also very loving and a little shy as well." She stared into the dark room, one ear always attuned for the welcome sound of the door opening, hearing nothing but the usual heavy silence pressing against her ears.

"He would only deny the shyness though. Your father is an intelligent man and _very_ talented. He helped build this opera house over our heads." She sighed, feeling the sharp ache of longing."He is...he is an enigma. Yes! He is definitely that. Only wait until you hear him sing! He sounds like an angel," but she remembered those times his voice had carried an icy chill. "To be honest, his voice is not only soft and soothing; it...it can also be hard and biting. He is many things and I am sure there is no other like him in the entire world."

She yawned tiredly and closed her eyes. "He hasn't always been treated very well because of his...because of his very s-singular looks." Her hand slipped to her belly as though consoling the tiny nubbin of life growing there, ignoring the sudden image of a baby with her husband's face. "It doesn't matter," she stubbornly insisted. "No, not at all."

She fell asleep like that, comforted by her child's presence in the absence of the father's, but awoke with a start less than an hour later, bitterly disappointed and worried anew that Erik was not beside her. She slipped out of bed and checked the time. He had been gone for hours now and she began to actively worry, never easy in her mind when the ex-opera ghost decided to take a walk. His behavior in the past two years had been exemplary compared to Erik's criminal proclivities in the past, but she was quite certain that a hard enough nudge could send him back into it.

She found herself grabbing a shawl and out the door before she could change her mind, her feet seeming to have a will of their own as she hurried along, knowing the way to the rue Scribe even blindfolded. This could be worked out like everything else they had been through- _would _go through in future. She had no doubts about that, for her husband was a product of his life, and those experiences would never go away. But he had her now, and that would make all the difference. She was nearly to the rue Scribe entrance when she heard the scrape of a shoe in the stone passage.

Too late, it occurred to her that she was alone down there. In a soft, quavering voice she called out, "Erik?"

"Louise? What are you doing out here?" He flew toward her out of the dim corridor and she ran to meet him, throwing her arms around his neck and clutching him tightly. He scooped her up in his arms, pressing his wet mask against her cheek. For a moment he could say nothing at all, and simply held her.

"Can you forgive an old fool?" he whispered finally.

His voice had immediately produced calm and reassurance, but the paramount emotion spreading in her chest, was happiness. He had come home. She sagged against him, her hold no doubt strangling him, but he never complained. "We'll be all right. We have each other," she murmured against his damp neck, "we have each other and that is all that matters." Relief and love pulsed through her veins, warm and sweet, only now realizing just how frightened she'd been with him gone. Would he ever learn to stay put instead of haring off and making them both miserable?

"Yes," as he kissed her face from forehead to chin, saving the best for last. Her mouth opened beneath his as they held each other tightly, her soft curves molded to his spare length. "I will take care of you. I swear it!" and she gripped him all the tighter. Her brilliant, exasperating man, who hid a wealth of tenderness and caring from others, but not her- never her. Once again, the tragedy and waste of his talents and great heart was borne in on her. That his face should dictate the whole of his existence, was a sadness that would forever haunt her.

It started to filter into her consciousness that she was getting wet, and she pulled away, anxiously surveying him. He looked like a drowned cat- albeit a very tall one, blinking yellow eyes at her in the low light of the cellar. "Why do you always persist in running away from a comfortable home? And in the rain," she scolded him. "You'll be sick again if you're not careful!"

He said nothing to that, knowing she was right. He took her by the arm and began walking, shortening his strides to match hers. When they arrived at the house, she led him over to the fireplace and started peeling off his coat. "I can do that for myself, Louise. Go sit down," and he began to pull away from her.

She snorted and held on to him. "I'm not the one soaking wet, husband. If you have forgotten your bout with pneumonia, I have not."

"But I am not the one with a...a... You are going to be a...a..."

"Mother?" she supplied helpfully, "which is probably a lot less strenuous than dancing." He was absolutely still, his eyes following her every move as a rivulet of water ran out from beneath his mask. She gently removed it and laid it on the table. "First we get you dry. Whatever possessed you to _walk_ in a downpour?"

"It wasn't raining when I started home. I needed the time to think." He shrugged helplessly. "It began again three blocks from the opera house and since I was already wet I-"

"-decided to become even wetter," she said grimly. She sternly cautioned him not to move, and left him standing and dripping near the fire as she gathered towels and a blanket. When she returned, she had to hide a smile to see he had obeyed her by not moving one jot. Dropping her bundle, she finished stripping off his clothes until he stood naked before her. She placed warm hands against his prominent ribs, the shifting firelight painting his normally paste white skin into a more robust glow of health as she toweled him dry. Her hands gentle on his cold flesh, she muttered provocatively, "Foolish man! You are chilled nearly blue. Will you ever learn to take better care of yourself?" and he stood quietly, glancing lovingly at the top of her head as she dried the thin strands of hair plastered to his skull. Done, she left the towel draped over his head, and was reaching for the blanket, when she chanced a quick glance at his eyes. With a start of surprise, she cupped his face in her hands, his eyes shifting away from hers, convinced she would see his fear.

"Look at me, Erik," she said, calmer than she felt. Reluctantly, his gaze swiveled around and focused on her, the golden irises suspiciously bright. "That's better," as her thumbs lightly brushed against his distorted cheekbones. She studied the raw patches of skin which had suffered under the wet mask, then met his eyes again. "We _will _get through this! But I want you to be happy for us."

"I don't want to lose you," his sigh mournful as he pictured a future without her.

Louise said nothing for the moment, but continued drying him off, before wrapping him in the warm blanket. She wanted to imprint her lips on every part of his ruined face; the impossibly high cheekbones which appeared to be no more than thinly fleshed skull; his forehead with the marble-like brow ridge, and the pitiable hole where his nose should have jutted out proud and haughty. He would have had a Roman nose, she decided; one which would have done justice to any emperor's likeness, minted on a gold coin in all of its arrogant splendor. She settled for pressing her lips to eyebrows which could arch independent of one another over deep cavernous sockets, housing eyes never meant by nature to have such a color, let alone glow in the dark like a nocturnal animal. Which made her wonder what their child would inherit from its sire. There was a good possibility it would possess some or all of Erik's facial aberrations.

Would it horrify her if it were so? Some small part of her, living just beneath the surface of conscious thought; some craven element hidden away, conceded that it would. But could she _love_ a child with her husband's face? The answer was right there without any prompting from that interior voice which often spoke to her.

Yes. And was comforted by the knowledge.

She pushed him gently into his chair and tipped his chin up. "We're having a baby! You are in no danger of losing me. You are gaining someone else who will love you as I do." She looked deeply into his eyes. "Remember that."

"I will try," he whispered, infuriated by the hot prickle of tears. Only she could manage to do that to him.

Louise straightened up and went to the fire, adding more coal, then went to the kitchen and put water on to boil. That done, she rummaged in the wooden cabinet for the tin basin. While the water heated, she set out the tea things and the sandwich from supper, then took the basin and hot water to the parlor and added the water to it. While it cooled a little, she went and retrieved the tea things, setting them on the small round table and pushed it closer to Erik's chair. The water in the basin was slightly cooler, and she placed it near his long, pale feet, lifting them one at a time into the water. He shuddered in reaction at the welcome heat, and looked gratefully up at her.

"Better?" she asked, pouring him a cup of tea and unwrapping the chicken sandwich.

"Yes. But I should be taking care of you. I am such a-"

"Stop it, Erik," she said wearily. "I am not a Dresden figurine, so do not start treating me as one. I _love _you, you love me- let us behave as adults here, because very soon we will have to be so in actuality. A child requires them."

He cleared his throat. "Of course. An adult. _That _will be a novelty, won't it?"

"We've had our moments," which won a wan smile from him.

She fetched the salve they had used ever since she first arrived in his home all those years ago. She returned to the parlor and unscrewed the lid, scooping some of the smelly paste onto her fingers, and standing between her husband's legs, began smoothing it lightly across his twisted cheekbones. She wiped her fingers on a towel and started to back away when Erik grabbed her hand.

"Thank you. I can't say enough how-" he stopped, overcome with emotion, and stared sightless at nothing.

Louise squeezed his hand in reply and added hot water to the basin before sitting down on the sofa, Erik feeling a keen sense of loss when she moved away. Taking a sip of her tea, she was gratified when he reached for his. She wanted to say something more to ease his mind, but couldn't think of a single thing. She felt hurt and a residual bit of anger for his penchant to turn her life upside down, even knowing that he hadn't really meant any of it. Thankfully, the paramount emotion was relief that he was with her again, safe and well.

She knew his intention wasn't to hurt her. Instead of talking it out like most couples did, Erik would run and hide. In some ways she couldn't blame him; a life such as the one he had been unfortunate enough to live, didn't do so very much to make him into a forthright and honorable man. In the past when something angered him, he would deal violently with it and neatly remove the threat. In this case, his hands were effectively tied and he was afraid of blundering- and so he escaped for a time until he could deal with it. Honor was there and so was tenderness; she had been the recipient of both, and knew him well enough to know that he would do the right thing and love his child. Compassion given freely to a man who had never received any, had worked wonders on him so far- it would again. She put her head back and sighed, feeling the beginnings of a headache.

Erik, hearing it, said quietly, "Can you forgive me? I seem destined to say that a lot. I have ruined a day that should have been full of joy for you, and even accused you of knowing beforehand that you were susceptible. I walked out when I should have stayed." He wouldn't look at her, knowing he had been remiss in his duties as her husband.

She leaned her head against the sofa back and nodded at the sandwich. "Eat some of that, won't you?" and anxious to please her in every way, he reached for it and took a bite. Aware of her watching him, he ate another mouthful, then another, until she was satisfied to see it all gone.

He chewed and swallowed, not tasting a bit of it. "Can you, Louise?"

"There is nothing to forgive. If anything, I drove you to it, so I suppose I share some of the blame."

"No. This was my fault," he said sullenly. "All of it. I gave you an ultimatum and I should have listened to you...understood your need to fulfill what so many women want. My needs are much less, you see." He raised tormented eyes to hers. "I only require you."

She regarded his thin body, her eyes traveling to his face where a mixture of love and misery sat upon the ruined features; features which appeared to her like a sculpture started and abandoned by capricious hands before the face could be smoothed and shaped into one of normality, perhaps even beauty. "And I you," she said softly, and held out her hand. "Join me?"

The words were no sooner spoken, his feet were out of the basin of water, and he was standing in front of her. She pulled him down to her, putting her arms around him. Gratefully, he slumped against her, like an exhausted child whose day had been too full of noise and confusion.

He contemplated this shift in their relationship as his mind had done unceasingly since finding out. "I will become used to this, Louise. I only need a little time."

"You have seven more months, if that's any help," she said dryly. "I didn't expect this either, you know. It caught me by surprise too."

"I know it has," he said fervently.

"But can you accept it now, my darling?" She appeared tranquil, but he heard the thread of anxiety in her voice and felt awful for it.

She would never know his fear for her in the coming months. He would hide it to the best of his ability. He cupped her jaw and kissed her gently. "Yes. Whatever you need or want, I will get for you, no matter the cost. I am yours to command. I was horrible to you and I can only-"

She put a finger to his lips. "Hush. It is done now. Where did you go?"

"To the rue de Rivoli."

"Couldn't you have taken a carriage?'

"You sound like the daroga, Louise."

"I certainly hope I don't look like him," she teased.

"No, not at all," a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth as he gathered her into his arms, knocking loose the blanket.

She tucked it back into place and rested her head against his bare chest, the few crisp hairs tickling her cheek, and closed her eyes. She was so tired. "I have seven months to go. You won't be making a habit of this, will you?" and he cringed to hear the anxiety creeping into her voice. "I can't sleep when you're gone." She snuggled into his embrace- her and their baby. "I missed you."

He kissed the top of her head and laid his cheek there, breathing in the comforting scent of her. "No. I promise you I won't. We are going to have a...a baby," there! he had said it, "and I will be by your side every step of the way."

She sat up and stared at him in mock dismay. "_Every _step of the way? One of us is going to get highly embarrassed then, ma mie."

"Not _that_ close! Just the other side of the door," he protested in amusement, and pulled her back down against him.

Her eyes slipped shut. She could sleep now."That must have been quite a talk you had with Nadir," she mumbled drowsily. "I think I owe him a thank you."

"I already did," he said succinctly.

Her eyes flew open at that, and she grinned. "He didn't swoon, did he?"

"Hoyden."

_ "__I_ think you are going to be a marvelous father."

"I pray you are right," he muttered into her hair.

"Trust me," she whispered back.

"Always," as he held the entire world in his arms.

* * *

**Epilogue to follow.**


	44. Chapter 44

**A/N It's a long one folks. Really, _really _long. Marilyn and Gaby- hope this is what you had in mind. Like I said...everything but the kitchen sink ;) FYI- The ballade that Louise mentions as her favorite is based on the song Through the Eyes of Love, written by Carole Sager and the late great Marvin Hamlisch. It's on a CD entitled Unforgettable, with John Williams conducting the Boston Pops. Give it a listen sometime :)**

**And...curtain.**

* * *

Paris-1889

_This, my darling is the last of it. I wanted you to have this journal against a time that may come sooner than you think. Already there has been a great deal of interest concerning the ghost which once haunted the Garnier. I am afraid the __facts will become__ garbled with time and the retelling, therefore I wished you to have __the truth, __strange as __that truth happens to be. __This will be given to you someday so you may know what kind of man your father was, when he __haunted an opera house and __provided chills for some very su__sc__ept__i__ble ballet rats. But not yet. No, not yet._

_ Only one more thing to cover and I am done with this look back at the time a young ballerina was saved from an ignoble death and began her long journey home. _

_ Your birth. How your father made it through those long and arduous months, I will never know. That he did it, for the most part, with tenderness and gentle humor, has always made me cherish him __all the __more. He never had a lot of patience, but he surpassed even my expectations by being the dearest man any woman could want. __I was not the most p__lacid__ of women, and carrying you for nine months was harder than any ballet I had ever performed. __But it was worth every bit of discomfort- every __night__ of missed sleep, to hold you in my arms and look at last upon your dear, sweet face. And Papa? A man never lived that could love a child more than he did you at your birth. It wasn't an easy one by any means, and your father was quite often beside himself, but he never faltered in his devotion to the both of us, even when your Tante Maria refused to let him into the birthing room. He __simply over-rode her and planted himself beside the bed until you entered the world. I think Maria refused to speak to him for days for intruding into an area considered sacrosanct by so many women. Your mother? She was eternally grateful to him for being there and providing his calm strength when she needed it the most__. You were his greatest symphony- his most glorious opera- his dearest hope for normalcy. He just didn't realize it until he held you in his arms._

_ He was in awe of you as you grew. You were always exploring your world, and exhibited some of his qualities, (and my own) when it came to sheer stubbornness and willful behavior. But your very sweetness offset your recalcitrant nature, and the inherent shyness from your father has made you a favorite with everyone. I sincerely hope this doesn't cause you to have a swelled head, but Nadir adores you, you know. I often catch a look in his eye that doubts you could have sprung from such a source as your papa, but I assure you, it is only the truth. I see much of him in you. His intelligence, courage, and his compassion, which upon your birth, was set free at last. I may have started the process that changed an opera ghost into a man, but you finished it, and made him into the man he should have been all along. You were his redemption._

_ I end this now, dearest, with the hope that you have a clearer picture of what adversity your father had to contend with throughout his life. Was he ever a danger to himself and others? Yes. You should know this as well, to which I have explained to the best of my ability, __starting with __his own journey at a tender age from a home which never nurtured or cared for him, to __his nightmarish days in Persia__. I am very certain this knowledge will not change one iota the love you bear him. He wasn't always the best of men, and __for this, he __had many regrets. But one truth always stood out bright and shining. He always did his best by you and __me. Never forget that. _

_I love you, _

_Mama_

* * *

She looked one last time at the thick bound journal she had spent weeks working on, putting on paper their story- hers and Erik's, before setting it gently into the waiting box. Their lives. It would be given to their solicitor and kept until her child reached majority. She stood up and stretched, pausing to look out the window at the orange and gold trees rustling in the slight breeze. She loved the fall, the earthy mulch smell of wet leaves, the crunch of the dry ones underfoot as they walked in the park.

"Mama?"

Louise went over to the door and leaned out, "Yes, I'm coming!" She was on her way to morning rehearsal- the last before tonight's debut; afterward they would have lunch outside in one of the sidewalk cafes. After a few days of rainy weather, it was more than time to get outdoors and stretch their legs. She hurriedly pinned on her hat and gathered her handbag and gloves. She pulled the door shut and tripped lightly down the stairs, eager for the sunshine and blue skies of autumn.

* * *

"What did Maman say, Eugenie? You _will _eat something before we go to the park! Now behave yourself, or you may forget about feeding the ducks today!"

Christine took each little girl by the hand and looked in vain for an empty table, which was a lesson in futility; all of Paris seemed to be on the sunny streets today. She was just about to move on to the next crowded cafe, when her gaze fell on someone who looked familiar. She shaded her eyes and peered closer at the slender woman sitting with a small boy under the spreading limbs of a beech tree, and took a few steps closer.

"It can't be," she whispered, and tugged her girls over to their table. "Louise?"

The woman glanced up from her menu and looked into a pair of startled blue eyes. She broke into a warm grin. "Why, comtesse! But this is wonderful!" and looked immediately to the two little blonde girls standing beside their mother. "Please...join us!" Louise signaled for a waiter to bring them more chairs, and scooted closer to her son.

Christine got her daughters seated, and they immediately started whispering to each other, the youngest peeking between her fingers at the boy, while he eyed them with keen interest. The comtesse nodded at him. "Yours?"

"Yes. My son Hugo."

"_These_ little chatterboxes are Eugenie, and her younger sister Adelphe."

Adelphe held up four fingers and solemnly looked at Hugo. "I am _this _many," she said importantly, then spoiled it by giggling.

"I am five," and crossed his arms over his thin chest.

Eugenie tossed her head, ringlets bouncing. "Well, I am older than both of you, for I am _six_ years old and _I_ have a dog. Her name is Lissie."

"I have six cats!" he said, daring her to top that in importance.

"Cats make my father sneeze," she declared, sniffing.

Adelphe took exception to this. "No, they don't, Genie! They make _you _sneeze." She turned back to Hugo, her eyes wide and envious at the obvious treasure of so many felines. "Can I have one?" and she leaned a bit closer to him, large cornflower eyes staring into his.

"They are too little to leave their maman."

"Awright. When _can_ I have one?"

Hugo's face took on that perplexed look which unbeknownst to him, imitated his father's. It was the look of someone not quite sure how to end a particular line of inquiry- the look Papa often used with his mother. "Not for years and years," he replied, unwilling to give up any of his kittens, but seeing Adelphe's disappointment at this news, he found himself sympathizing with her, and added, "Don't worry. I know where you can get a frog."

"Awright," and she grinned at him so sweetly, he felt a twinge of shame.

She was a fellow cat lover and had none. Feeling an accompanying ache in his chest, the boy sighed mournfully and made her his last offer. "You may have one when their maman stops feeding them," he said magnanimously, and frowned when his mother winked at the comtesse.

Louise laughed and leaned over, ruffling her son's hair. "It's a gift that didn't come easily, did it, Hugo?" and the boy nodded in confusion, knowing he had pleased his mother in some small way and felt all the better for it.

The little girl's smile widened even more, and she turned to her mother. "Maman! My own kitty!"

She looked dubiously at her daughter. "There are all manner of cats in Calais, Addy, and Pere isn't particularly fond of any of them," she watched as her daughter's face fell, "but I suppose if it's a gift-" and Adelphe clapped her small hands in delight.

Christine smiled at this, and glanced from her daughter to Hugo, charmed by the neatly dressed child, his raven hair sticking stubbornly up at the back of his head. She studied the boy, a feeling of recognition niggling at the corners of her mind. He was now explaining to the two girls how to catch their very own frog in the park.

Louise nodded at her son sitting with his dark head bent close to the two blonde de Chagny girls. "Quite a contrast, aren't they? Just like a blackbird among the canaries."

Christine laughed for it was true. "He gets his looks from your husband, I take it?" Where her daughters were pink and gold with bright blue eyes, Louise's son was the opposite. Thick, inky hair surrounded a thin, pale face lit by hazel eyes. Louise's eyes. He wasn't a handsome boy; his face was too narrow for that, his cheekbones too high and lacking that padding of flesh which rounded and softened, but his black hair contrasted against the pallid skin of his face was arresting, and his deep-set eyes framed by thick lashes were beautiful. It was a countenance he would have to grow into, but when he did, he would be a striking man.

"Yes. In some ways he does. How have you been, comtesse?"

"Very well, and _you_ may drop the title, Louise! It came with my husband and I have never had much use for it. But to answer you, I am happier now that I have returned to Paris."

"Are you here to stay?"

She shook her head. "We make one trip a year when Raoul wants to visit his sister Agnes." She made a moue of distaste. "Simone died two years ago, and to be blunt, I don't miss her in the least. I know, that's bad of me, but we were never close. In her defense though, she did dote on her nieces."

Louise smiled. "I remember Agnes and Simone quite well. They detested any whiff of the theatre in their drawing room. Believe me, Christine, I sympathize."

"Agnes still wrinkles her nose when I enter a room, but it ceased to bother me a long time ago. We have a truce of sorts for Raoul's sake. Nevertheless, I wanted the girls to see the city again; take them to the park, do some shopping. Calais is wonderful, but it does tend to get a little dull, and since Raoul couldn't get away for this trip, we decided I should come with the girls- oh, and their nanny, Georgette." She sat back in her chair, and smiled faintly. "We've been here a week already, and leave for home tomorrow." She frowned a bit, and looked curiously again at Hugo. "What is your husband's name?"

"St. Clair."

Her brow furrowed in thought. "The name is familiar, but I can't put a face to it."

Louise's glance was sharp; if she didn't know better, she would have accused Christine of dissembling, but a closer look at the other woman's face, showed no guile. "It's unlikely you would. He is not originally from Paris. He was born in Normandy; Rouen to be precise. We have a second home there; Hugo loves it. Here, we live in the Auteuil villas in the Arrondissement de Passy."

"Of course. The Right Bank."

She nodded. "It was important that it be within walking distance of the Bois de Boulogne. Hugo drags his father there quite often." Louise chuckled. "Although it might be the other way around. They like to look at the plant life."

"Your son reminds me of someone."

"Interesting," Louise said politely.

"Yes, isn't it? Are you happy, Louise?"

Her gaze fell on her son. The smallest of her two gentlemen. "Very."

"Then that's all that matters, isn't it? Woman to woman- that's all we have ever wanted." She looked down for a moment and hesitated a fraction. "I never got to thank you for wanting to help just before...well, just before everything went so badly. I should have trusted you more at the time, but Raoul thought you would tell Philippe about our plans. I realized a long time ago, that wasn't true."

The waiter brought their tea and scones and the three children stopped talking long enough to each take one. Very soon though, the three heads were together again as her son extolled the virtues of horseback versus camelback, and the little girls were hanging on his every word. Nadir told him many tales of Persia, something his father had no wish to speak of, but Hugo would always be willing to listen to the Persian's stories, and loved to pass them on to others less fortunate; that being anyone who had not sampled the storytelling abilities of the daroga. Louise often wondered if they weren't grossly exaggerated by Nadir.

She poured herself a cup of tea and blew on it before answering. "I couldn't have helped much as it was. I couldn't walk, so I would have been a liability to you. I am glad you were able to...to leave unharmed with Raoul. The only thing from that time which I regret, is what happened to Philippe. T-That and the danger you all were subjected to-" Louise saw her look of consternation and hastened to say, "Nadir Khan told me a little of what happened that night. He is a friend of the family."

The comtesse cast a quick glance at the children and lowered her voice. "Raoul thinks my teacher killed him. Louise...do you know what happened to him?"

The moment to confess to Christine came... "Phil had no business going into the cellars that night," and went...

The younger woman regarded her silently for a moment, but decided not to pursue it. She really had no wish to rake up the past. "Never mind. I don't suppose it matters anymore." Her eye fell on the three children and she had to laugh. "They are getting along famously, aren't they? What does Hugo's father do?" she asked.

Louise felt as though she walked a fine line between telling the truth and hiding it. It felt odd. "He is a composer- among other things. You may have heard some of his work if you have visited any of the opera houses. Perhaps that's where you recognized the name." She saw no harm in giving credit where it was long overdue, and she said it with pride, for it was always a source of joy for her that her husband had at long last come into his own.

"My papa can make the angels weep when he plays his violin." Hugo looked up then, a milk mustache adorning his upper lip, and Louise leaned over with her napkin, wiping his mouth.

The comtesse glanced with amusement at him. "I can see that you are your father's most ardent admirer. As I once was with my own."

Louise smiled. "The sun rises and sets on Hugo's papa."

Christine's gaze lingered on the boy's face. "Raoul would love a son and heir. He adores his daughters, but he wants a boy to carry on the de Chagny line. Someday I hope to give him one. What about your husband? Does he wish for more sons?"

"No. He never really liked children all that much until Hugo came along."

"Hugo. Family name?"

Louise had to smile at that. Erik placed much more value on the written word than anyone he had known, living or dead. Therefore, his son should consider it an honor to be named for such a venerable personage. _His _words. "No. My husband is fond of Victor Hugo's works."

"Would _you _like more children, Louise?"

She shook her head and reached for her tea. "Motherhood ended with my son. It was a difficult birth," remembering her pain, and yellow eyes full of anguish for her suffering, "there will be no others." She was relieved when there was barely a catch in her voice.

"Oh, that must be hard for you and your husband."

"No. He was actually relieved there would be no more, but he and Hugo are very close. As for me, I have my two men and that's all I require."

"Dancing is still important to you, I trust? I'm afraid we don't get much news of the theatre in Calais."

"I have been ballet mistress for the past year now. You don't remember Vincente Breda, but he was ballet master before finding himself a wealthy patron." Louise laughed, recalling his hasty exit from the world of theatre, to marry a widow with more money than sense. "Not exactly a marriage made in Heaven, but it did benefit me, and I thank them both for the privilege," and she grinned. "Tonight though, I will dance. The performance this evening is special, Christine. My husband penned it and he insisted I perform it."

"That's marvelous! What is it called?"

"La vie dans un reve. It is the life of a young girl named Isadora and her adventures with her companion, an older man named Cyprien." She looked at the other woman, her gaze softening a bit. "It is the story of how we met, put to music."

"Life in a dream. It sounds intriguing. I would love to be there for its debut." Christine looked at the other woman with a touch of sadness and nodded at her surroundings. "This is as close as I have been to the opera house in five years, Louise. Cowardly, isn't it? I think that should change, don't you? Face my demons, so to speak. I'll have to see about attending tonight."

Louise had a moment's unease. _Face her demons indeed. At least one in particular. _"I'm afraid it's a full House tonight, and unfortunately you're leaving tomorrow." Christine wasn't the only coward, she thought wryly.

"Oh, but I am certain a ticket can be found for the Comtesse de Chagny, Louise," she grinned conspiratorially, "so I suppose the title does have its uses, and do not forget that I was a celebrated diva for a short time. Where I met-" She glanced up at Louise and her smile became a little bitter. "Do you remember me talking about my teacher? I left here not knowing what became of him... sometimes...sometimes I can't help but think-" She crumbled some scone on her plate, pushing it around with her teaspoon. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. The...the Phantom still bothering the rats? It _has _been years, though I have often wondered-"

She shook her head. "No. It has been peaceful for years, although some of the older girls still love to taunt the younger ones with the usual hair-raising tales. As always, they are susceptible." Louise regarded the comtesse's hopeful face, and with a perturbed sigh, made a decision she prayed they wouldn't all regret later. "You would really like to see the ballet tonight?" She took a deep breath and dived in. "Then consider it done. I'll make sure you have the best seat in the House! Box Five, and you may keep Tante Maria and Nadir Khan company."

"Thank you! I would have been disappointed not to see you onstage again before we leave Paris. And dancing to your husband's music! How very remarkable."

Hugo, beside himself with pride and excitement, glanced at Christine and said shyly, "I will be in the pit with my father."

"He insisted on my taking the part of Isadora, and I in turn convinced him he needed to conduct his own music." Louise shrugged. "Those were the terms." She glanced fondly at her child. "Hugo asked permission to sit near his father. He is often there while they rehearse and the musicians have grown used to his presence. It _is_ a little unorthodox, but my husband is known to be a bit...unusual," she cleared her throat, thinking that a vast understatement, "he decided for this one night, right beside him would do very well."

Christine gave an unladylike snort. "For a musician of his caliber, he sounds quite normal. They are all a trifle eccentric, are they not? I cannot wait to see what unfolds this evening!" Her eye fell on Hugo. "And you will have an even better seat than mine. It has been lovely seeing you again, Louise. It brings back many memories," she paused reflectively and shrugged, "good _and _bad."

The waiter approached their table with the bill, and Christine waved Louise away when she put out her hand for it. "No, I will get this. How many times did you offer tea and consolation to a nervous mouse of a girl?"

"Hardly that, Christine. Do you ever miss singing?"

She shrugged. "Oh, sometimes I wonder where I would be if I had continued on the stage. Who would not? But the only singing I do now is when one of my daughters asks it of me. The melodies of my childhood are all that really interest me anymore. The stage was my father's dream, and...and..._his_. It was never mine. The Angel of Music chose the wrong girl."

She put some francs into the hand of the waiter and looked at the three heads now close together, giggling over something. Well, she amended, two giggling, and the boy relating to them the time he was chased by a pair of angry geese in the park. He had warmed up to his role as story teller to the two laughing girls, and once again she reached for a face... or even a name, but it wouldn't come. She shook her head in frustration and stood up.

"Come along, girls. Maman has things to do before this evening."

Louise once again reached for a little backbone to warn Christine in advance of what she could expect tonight. Sadly, her spine refused to cooperate.

* * *

She sat waiting for her husband to finish with the orchestra, then it was home for a light dinner and return to the Garnier for the performance. The company had scattered for the few hours they had to relax and eat a light meal before returning to the opera house. The stage was a flurry of activity as the crew worked on the scenery, dragging the heavy props into place. Act one would be depicted as a dungeon cell, gloomy in the labyrinthine cellars as it so clearly was during the days of the Commune. Louise, her excitement banked for now as she kept her thoughts calm and untroubled, would soon take the stage again after a year's absence.

She sat near the orchestra pit surrounded by the splendor of the Garnier, her eyes closed as she listened to the music which came from the vivid imagination of her husband. He would lead the audience through the dismal days of privation, their journey to Orleans, and the affection they discovered for one another along the way. She smiled to herself. An affection which had caught fire and miraculously deepened into love - they just hadn't realized it then. It took ten years to do that. But she would be Isadora tonight, and relive those precarious times with Erik, and perhaps their eyes would meet at some point during the performance and they would remember.

She could tell by the change in tempo and what it depicted- the coda was close. She felt anxiety trying to make inroads on her calm, and forced it away. She said a small prayer then. She wanted a successful debut for him. He was a visionary when it came to music and she wanted him recognized for it at long last. He deserved it.

She opened her eyes and trained them on her husband as he took the orchestra to the end, her gaze leaving his thin form and alighting on her son. She could just make him out to the left of the conductor's podium, and she laughed aloud to see his small hands furtively performing the same motions as his father- even to the conductor's baton in his right hand. He was welcome in the pit as long as he adhered to his father's rules, and as the musicians had learned to respect the father, they had grown fond of the boy, even going so far as to present him with his own tiny baton. She had observed her husband and son over the years- different in countenance- but often sharing some of the same traits and mannerisms. As time went on, she had been proven right about the love Erik had for his child.

She watched them both as the music reached its crescendo, the younger mimicking so well the movements of his sire. It was a ballade in the last act with a series of solos and pas de deux leading up to the discovery of Isadora's and Cyprien's love for one another. It was by far her favorite of Erik's music, soaring and majestic, filled with something her husband had only recently acquired- optimism.

Her mind started to wander as she listened, remembering the first days after Hugo's birth; awaking to find her son missing from his cradle and Erik no longer beside her. She had slipped out of bed, tiptoeing across the floor, and peeked into the adjoining sitting room. She put a hand up to her mouth in surprise to see her husband sitting on the sofa, their son in his lap. He had refused to hold the boy whenever prompted by her, instead, seeming content just to watch him- which he did often. She was relieved to see her two men together, and it brought a tired smile to her face. With a skeletal finger, he lightly traced the soft curve of the baby's cheek, the rounded chin- the tiny, well formed nose. She had made her slow, halting way to them, still weakened and sore after the birth, curious about his detailed study of their son.

The only child they would ever have.

During her labor, she had been aware of her husband having forced his way into the birthing room as she struggled to bring their baby into the light of day. Below her waist, the agony had unfurled like a full blown rose in shades of pain from a steady cramping, to the much sharper variety that grew ever stronger with each succeeding wave. Arrayed on the bedside table were the painkillers prepared by her husband for this very moment, which included crampbark tincture for the birthing pains, and a massage oil with clary sage and chamomile which were applied at intervals to her abdomen and back by Maria. Erik held a cloth briefly to her nose and had her inhale between pains. Her aunt and the midwife had watched this with suspicion until he curtly explained its beneficial effects. He had called it Mazanderan scent, and short whiffs of it allowed her some welcome rest before the onset of another contraction.

His terror for her was well hidden, shoved ruthlessly aside as he kept his voice calm and steady, imploring her to squeeze his hands every time the pain reached its zenith. After the seemingly endless hours of torment and exertion, the lusty cries of their son were heard, and Louise managed to smile in her exhaustion, thinking he sounded very _bellicoso._ Her boy was not happy leaving his warm and safe nest. Maria's worried face had settled into more placid lines once Louise had safely delivered, and she and the midwife left the little family alone at last. The door had no sooner closed behind them, when Erik walked on stiff legs to the chair by her bed and sank weakly into it. Staring at his wife and child, his mouth worked soundlessly, seeming bereft of speech. But, oh his eyes had expressed so very much before he leaned forward and dropped his head in his hands, narrow shoulders shaking with abject relief. In that moment, Louise knew she would take the stoneseed extract. For him. She could handle her pain; she simply could not bear his.

He glanced up from the baby in his lap, his expression stern. "You shouldn't be out of bed, Louise."

"I wanted to see what my two gentlemen were doing." She sat down gingerly, and her husband put up a hand to steady her. He looked her over carefully, and satisfied with what he saw, went back to his study of their boy.

He smoothed the fluffy shock of hair on the baby's head; hair as black as his father's. "He doesn't have that vaunted beauty prized by so many mothers. He will be a blackbird among the canaries, won't he, Louise?" his hand still gently caressing the small head.

She snorted as she watched his fascination with his son. "I don't want a golden haired beauty. I adore my little blackbird."

Erik nodded. "As do I... as do I," he said with a catch in his voice. "He has a nose. _My _boy has a nose. Such a normal component of anyone's appearance, whether it be large or small, dainty or...or aquiline. Some worry over the size or shape of it, but after all... it is still just a nose." He ran the tip of his finger down his son's nose, and the baby twitched a little in his sleep. They both watched as a tiny bubble of saliva left the corner of his mouth, and Erik gently wiped it away. "But remove it from the face completely, exposing nasal cavities to the morbidly curious, and it becomes less a conceit and more of a terrible travesty. I spent untold amounts of my time hoping- praying he...he-" He stopped, unable to go on, and she slipped her arm through his, leaning her head against his shoulder. He looked at his wife then, his eyes bright. "He is perfection," and continued stroking the tiny cheek. "Erik has a family now," he whispered.

During her pregnancy, they bought their home; a three story second empire with large, spacious rooms and lots of windows; Maria loved it and blessed Erik for thinking of her when he bought the house. She had her own suite of rooms, and a well stocked kitchen with the latest in appliances and the room to create all sorts of culinary wonders. There was an immense dining room with floor to ceiling windows which opened onto a terrace, and two sitting rooms, plus a library on the first floor, lined with shelves holding hundreds of books. Erik's music room was toward the back of the house facing the river, and he would closet himself inside it for hours when creative juices began to flow. Nadir was more often than not, a frequent visitor to their home; he was Maria's dearest friend, and Louise well knew, her aunt's lover. She was happy for them. They also had a role to perform in the lives of the St. Clair family, and considered themselves to be an integral part of it. And they were.

She sighed as the music ended and the musicians scattered for the few hours before the House opened for the performance. She still had trouble believing that it had finally happened, and her husband was doing what he was made for- sharing his music with others. She recalled how it all came about.

He had played a portion of the ballet for her after he had completed a quarter of it, and she had been very enthusiastic. Getting it performed in the theatre wasn't a problem. Richard and Moncharmin had been buying Erik's music for years. Louise had started out as the go-between for her husband and the managers, but the rest she had left up to Erik, and his meeting with the managers had gone very well. They had both laughed privately at the fact that Moncharmin and Richard were in the presence of the former opera ghost and none the wiser. Selling the idea of La vie dans un reve, was easy after that and it wasn't long before Erik had cajoled her into taking the lead. She had made her own demand of her husband to conduct his music and the stage was set.

She was forced out of her reverie by the arrival of her son, who had spotted her in the auditorium, and pointed her out to his father. Still lean to the point of painful thinness, Maria had long ago given up on her campaign to fatten up Erik. She now accepted the fact that his build was a part of him just like the color of his eyes and hair.

He bent down and kissed her. "Are you ready to go home?" He nodded at Hugo who was leaning against his mother's seat. "He wants to check on the kittens before we return, and Fleur seems intent on making them disappear. She is quite the magician in her own right." Fleur was her son's gray tabby who had just given birth to a litter of kittens. Louise remembered her Monsieur Erik who had not awakened one morning three years ago. He had lived out his last years with a special place in her heart, and she felt another cat would be ideal for Hugo. Erik had agreed to look into it, and one day last year he came home with the little gray and black striped kitten and their son was ecstatic.

"She keeps moving them because Hugo won't leave them alone! They are too young to play with, as I have told him a number of times." She accepted the hand he held out to her, and rose to her feet, the three of them making their way out to the street where their carriage sat. "That was lovely, by the way."

He blew out a frustrated sigh and his mouth tightened. She saw it in his eyes, his growing unease as he was about to step into the public arena after years of shunning it. His music revered or reviled. Erik would never admit to nervousness over such a thing; _his _anxiety revealed itself in the form of angry complaint and a short fuse.

"It's not good enough. The strings aren't blending the way they should, and I am not satisfied with only four harps. I requested six. Why the devil do they develop a bookkeeper mentality when I ask for the required number of instruments? Their feeble excuse is that there are no more to be had in the whole of Paris. God's bones!" he railed. "They should have done what I proposed, and stole them from the Comique. Offer them more money and they will come. But do those two dunderheads consider it? Too damned tight fisted by half, Louise. After I'm through with Moncharmin, I _will_ have my harps before tomorrow night's performance; the piece was written for _six_, not four, but the jackass insists the show will go on regardless. Well, of course it will! It is _my_ show, but their absence compromises the integrity of the performance, and even if I have to string him up, I-"

"You," she cut in hastily, "are becoming anxious and it's making you cross." _And a little bloodthirsty._ "You worry needlessly, husband. Every opera...every ballet goes through this very same process- messy and ofttimes frustrating, but in the end worth it. The music speaks for itself and it truly _is_ beautiful."

The boy looked up at his father and proudly stated, "Gaspard said it is...it is beautifully difficult and Papa is a sa-di-stic bas_tard_ for writing it."

"Hugo!" and she stared in horror at her precocious son, while choking on a laugh. Gaspard was the principal second violin in the string section and highly opinionated. She covered her gaff with a rattling cough before her eyes flew to her husband's expecting an explosion.

Instead he merely chuckled and ruffled his son's hair. "Why, yes, child. I suppose that's true; the score _is _difficult for a less competent musician, and the label attached to me is also true; it would serve him well not to forget it," Erik said gently, keeping his large hand on the boy's head, but his mellifluous voice had grown a sharper edge to it, one limned with frost, and Hugo knew that tone well, "but such language in front of your mother is unacceptable. Sadistic bastard is a term I do not wish to hear again coming from your tender mouth. Understood?"

Hugo nodded and scuffed a toe along the floor. "Yes, Papa," he mumbled to his shoes.

Erik cupped a hand around one ear. "What was that? I am afraid I didn't quite hear you."

The boy looked up at that beloved and imposing figure towering far above him and loudly repeated himself, wondering not for the first time, how his father had no trouble hearing something spoken from across the width of a room, but failed to hear him now, standing right beside him.

"Excellent!" He turned narrowed eyes on his wife. "And _you _need a tisane of lemon and raw honey to soothe that cough."

The laugh had slipped out before she could stop it. Such was the precocity of their son. It wasn't the first time he had repeated nearly verbatim what he had heard, but this was definitely the worst. "It's nothing. Just a tickle," and she dropped her eyes from his, saying in a low voice, "He listens to everything, Erik, especially when the talk concerns you. Such is the price of his adoration, so you needn't glare at me like that! He simply caught me by surprise. I never know what he will say next!"

"That is true, darling, but you must admit, he is very adept at discovering what others are thinking and passing it on."

"I'm not so sure I _want_ to know," she said dryly as they reached the sidewalk. "However, you need to relax a little before tonight."

"Mm," he absently agreed, putting a hand to the small of her back. "I really should send the two of you home and remain here."

She smiled in commiseration and put her arm through his, giving it a comforting squeeze. "You, my love, are a perfectionist and won't ever be pleased with it, will you? But it was lovely. I stand by that."

"You would not feel so if the tempo caused your timing to be off, now would you?" he snapped. "Why did I allow you to talk me into this insanity? Madame Guillotine would be much more welcoming than the halfwits who usually populate the Garnier of an evening!"

She ignored his fractious tone, knowing he was fretting over his music and the public's reception to it. She was well used to her husband's moods. He was in and out of them quicker than she could perform a series of deboules. _That _would never change. "You _allowed _me because you know very well no other conductor can do it justice better than its composer! And I trust you more than anyone to keep everything smooth and seamless tonight."

He glanced down at her and his mouth twitched a little. "In that case, I'll see what I can do."

"That's better. Now, come home with us? Please?"

He helped his wife and son into the carriage, and she was gratified when he got in and settled beside her, rapping on the wall with his knuckles. They left the curb and eased into the crowded street filled with jostling carriages, horses, and pedestrians.

He remained quiet as they wended their way home, and she knew he was going over all the seemingly endless details for tonight. "We can return early if you feel you must," she told him quietly.

He hummed noncommittally, squeezing her hand in reply.

She uneasily cast her mind around; she needed to let him know that Christine would be in the opera house tonight. Not warning him could lead to some very awkward moments- awkward for no other reason than the past was sometimes better left alone. She hoped she wasn't so much of a coward to even consider not saying anything. Dropping this in his lap now though, could be very inconvenient; nevertheless, she took a deep breath, ready to confess, but as it was, her son mentioned it first.

"We met the Comtesse de...de..._Chanee _today, Papa. She was nice and smelled good." He tilted his head and glanced at his mother. "Although not as nice as Mama," he said loyally. "She has two girls and we had milk... and scones. They were not so very bad... the girls, _not _the scones. They have yellow hair just like Ceci Caron," he added, as though it was an important fact.

Her husband had become very still, eyes shifting from his son to Louise. "You met Christine today?"

She nodded. "They are back in Paris for a visit. Just her and her daughters. Raoul couldn't get away, so she came by herself." She observed him, trying to gauge his reaction, but he had turned away. "She is coming to the ballet tonight. As our guest in Box Five."

He sat with long legs stretched out as much as possible, and gazed out the window, noticing very little.

"Erik?"

At last he looked at his wife, showing her nothing but blank mask and inscrutable eyes. "I will see her after the performance."

Louise glanced at Hugo, who was now watching them curiously, and smiled. "Of course. I think you should."

"Does she know La vie dans un reve is my work?"

"Ah, no, but she will soon enough."

"Obviously. Did you inform her that we are married?"

"No."

"You didn't wish for her to know that I am your husband?"

She stared at him, and sputtered indignantly, "Well, of course I did! I would shout it from the rooftops if your life wasn't so littered with-" She stopped, about to point out his nefarious past, but she was quite sure he already knew it was littered with the bodies of his victims. She glanced at her son who was as usual paying close attention to his parents. It had never been easy sparring words with Erik, and it was even less so now. Gamely, she tried a different tack. "Perhaps it is a lifetime of guarding your identity that kept me quiet, but I see no harm in her finding out tonight that normal doesn't always mean the most prudent course. Sometimes the road less traveled conceals the dearest prize of all." _There! Take that, husband._

He put his head back and looked with exaggerated interest at the ceiling, pursing his thin lips. "Or could it be that Louise was feeling guilty for denying knowledge of me to Christine all those years ago?" one amber eye rolling toward her, awash in amusement. "Well, it is undoubtedly too late to remain your little secret, isn't it?"

"Ooh, you are supremely wicked, Erik!" and lowered her voice as their son continued to watch them. "You know exactly why I pleaded ignorance of your existence back then," she countered.

He reached for her hand and held it to his lips. "I most certainly do."

He kissed each of her knuckles before drawing away, but held on to her hand. Her eyes remaining on his, she wasn't surprised at all when his voice landed softly in her ear.

"_May I entice you into listening to the don tonight after the performance? You seemed to enjoy yourself quite a bit the last time, if I'm not mistaken."_

"You know very well I did," she said crisply, "the same as a gentleman of my acquaintance, as I recall."

"_Without a doubt__."_

"Mama?" Her son looked enquiringly at her.

"Nothing, darling."

"_Oh? I think it is everything. You in my arms. What more could I want?"_

"Two more harps?" she asked innocently, tongue firmly in cheek.

A deep chuckle from his father had Hugo turning to stare at him.

For Louise, the black velvet sound of it raised the fine hairs at her nape. Married seven years and he could still make her shiver with longing. "I would be delighted to join you for some music later...and perhaps a little dancing?" Her eyes as they cut sideways up at him were sultry and devilish- holding a sweet promise for him alone.

* * *

She sat in the plush seat feeling shock and no small amount of anger as waves of sound overwhelmed her. She glanced to her right and Madame Renaldi smiled at her. She then turned to her left and met the eyes of Estelle Caron, attending this evening with her husband Gilberte. Christine's eyes flew back to the gaunt figure of the conductor. She had been captivated from the very beginning, as the cunning music encouraged the listener to step inside for a while and forget everything else as the tale unfolded. Louise had danced to it. Her entire body had performed a story set to the enchanting melodies by the very man the ballerina had denied knowing seven years ago. It _was _Erik. Of that she had no doubt. No other man moved with such fluidity and ease- no man was so utterly singular as he. Still not trusting her eyes, she had snatched the opera glasses from her lap and taken a closer look. And knew for certain. And was stunned.

Louise had known him when he spoke to Christine through a wall. It was irrefutable now. Sorelli had once looked into her eyes and lied about the man using her for his own purpose. She sat there feeling as though a great conspiracy had been enacted against her, but before many minutes had gone by, her anger had withered away as she was drawn in against her will.

Christine watched as the ballet told a story of privation and danger. The tale of an uneasy alliance as the man and girl traveled far from Paris and built a fragile bond along the way. She closed her eyes and listened to the aching quality of the music, which beautifully revealed the budding affection between the two; the fits and starts of any relationship as it finds its emotional legs, and the growing awareness of something even deeper taking place. Every rapture, every agony of love was called forth, wringing out the last bit of sentiment and not letting go until the ending note. She was staggered by the genius of his work.

Shock had been the paramount emotion as she watched that tall, spare figure moving with graceful expediency to the conductor's podium. It still reverberated in her.

_This_ was Louise's husband.

Hugo's father.

Erik.

Christine wondered how many others were privy to the fact that it was his and Louise's story playing out before their eyes? Cyprien wore no mask, his face was perfectly normal. Perhaps the whole truth would have been far too disturbing; a deformed misfit finding love with a girl nearly half his age, might detract from the beauty of the music and the message it conveyed. Not to mention the harsh light which would shine that much brighter on its misanthropic composer.

Her former teacher looked different in his white tie and tails- unfamiliar to her, as he took his place in a world far from shadows, where he once hid behind walls pretending to be an angel. He was now living a life in the light with a wife and son, but she couldn't shake the image of the broken man that last night in the cellars. She thought he had died all those years ago, alone, unloved and mourned by no one. Soon though, her confusion was left behind as the music swept her along on an ever faster current. Christine was quite certain that an unseen connection of spirit flowed between husband and wife...friends...lovers. It was there in every lush note, every liquid measure- the composer's great love for his prima ballerina. He provided her the means to dance, with his slender frame a fluid metronome as it swayed to the beat, and by the precise and elegant movements of his hands guiding the instruments of the Garnier's superb musicians. Louise gave it back to him tenfold, as she danced for him and him alone.

A dream moving forward and becoming life- realized at last.

The final act had begun when a note for the comtesse was delivered to their box. Puzzled as to whom it was from, her first thought was for her daughters and husband. She opened it and read-

_Permit me a moment of your time after the performance. __Nadir Khan will escort you to the small practice room__. __Erik_

"Yes," she whispered.

* * *

The Persian looked at Christine's flushed face as she read the note, and turned to Maria. "But _why _does he want to see her? He said nothing to me, except to bring her there. Does he mean to attempt another abduction?"

Maria looked askance at him and snorted. "Don't be ridiculous! What could he possibly gain from it?"

"To us...nothing but trouble. For Erik, who knows? Perhaps he means to force her to sing again. You don't understand the convoluted thinking of the man. He took her from the stage, Maria, and as you recall, it ended quite badly. I am certainly too old for a repeat performance!" he replied sotto voce.

Maria's lips curled up in a smile and she nodded at the stage below them. "He already has everything he desires."

"All the same, I will take my time escorting the comtesse there. Just so he may come to his senses and refuse to see her."

She patted Nadir's hand affectionately. "I have a fairly good idea of why he wants to see her. You men! _You _are the ones for theatrics! Not the women." She turned and gave Estelle a wink. "Aren't men melodramatic?"

She looked at her husband and said with a twinkle in her eye, "Oh, yes, most certainly. But that is why they need us. Just to keep their feet planted firmly on the ground!"

* * *

Louise took her last curtain call, and caught the eye of her husband, who had been literally stunned by the audience's rousing standing ovations, repeated on five different occasions. His golden eyes shining with pride and excitement, he bowed low to her. It was a wonderful moment for them both, and a good time to retire as prima ballerina. She quit the stage and hurried to her dressing room. When she entered, she went directly to her vanity table to begin removing the heavy makeup, and there propped against an enormous vase of red roses was a note. First she lifted the card that came with the flowers, and couldn't stop a smile when she read it.

_To my dearest traveling companion- I would do it all over again. __ Erik_

She held the card up to her lips and closed her eyes. "As would I," she whispered. Next she picked up the note, which was from him as well. An assignation in the small practice room. She would have to hurry.

She buried her nose one last time in the heavy scent of the roses, and began wiping off the grease paint before having one of the costumers help her remove the beautiful silver dress she had worn in the last act. Her son arrived with Maria, and she hugged him tightly.

"You were beautiful, Mama," he said, tugging on her dressing gown. Obligingly, she bent down, and he cupped a hand around her ear. "Papa told me to tell you so," he whispered conspiratorially.

She hugged her boy tightly and kissed him on both cheeks. "Why then, I thank the _both_ of you, kind monsieur!" she replied laughing.

Maria took him by the hand. "It was lovely, Louise! I add my admiration to Hugo's _and _Erik's. I was entranced by it all, and both of you should be very pleased. Are you attending the reception in the Ice Room?"

Louise shook her head. "Absolutely not." She grinned at her aunt. "Erik's words, not mine. There will be no speaking with intrusive reporters or listening to swell headed managers for untold tedious hours, drinking their atrocious selection of wine. Again, _his _words, not mine. I just happen to agree."

"I am afraid his new status as a successful composer, as well as an evasive one, will only help fuel interest in him. Eventually, he will have to meet his public, Louise."

She was in the act of giving her son another hug, and glanced up at her aunt. "Then you don't know, Erik, tante. He will only say that he has already become acquainted with the public by standing in front of them for two hours. He has no wish for the glare of publicity; only the opportunity to share his music. Which he has done exceedingly well."

"He most certainly has done that," she replied with admiration. "There was a reporter just outside your door when we arrived. Did you speak with him?"

Louise nodded. "Yes. Erik may shun them, but it's not wise to make enemies of the Paris newspapers."

Maria nodded and turned to Hugo. "Well, child. Let us be off. Tante is ready to go home." She glanced at her niece with an arch smile. "Have a lovely evening, cara."

A steady stream of flowers and well wishers descended on her, but at last she was able to change into her ruby dress. It was her husband's favorite, and she intended to please him in every way she could tonight. It was their triumph together. She made her way through the formally attired gentlemen crowding the corridors- those hoping to get lucky with any one of the ballerinas who had danced across the stage and into their libidos.

She arrived breathless at the practice room, glanced quickly around and slipped inside. He was standing stiffly near the piano, watching her as she crossed the room. To Louise, her husband seemed barely self-contained, as though he thrummed with a surplus of nervous energy. Neither one spoke as he opened his arms and she walked into them. He held her close and nuzzled the smoothness of her neck.

"You were wonderful tonight! Prima ballerina, indeed. None better!"

She linked her arms behind his neck and leaned against his whipcord length, breathing into the hollow of his throat, "I had the most divine music to guide my steps. They loved it, Erik! They loved it and they will want more from you. You should be very, very proud. I know I am."

"It is all I ever imagined! You have no idea what it means to me! To go from a lurking spectator... existing in the dark; always on the fringe of living_,_ to being in the midst of it. They applauded my music! Standing ovations. For me, Louise. For Erik. They even accepted the mask...they-" He clutched her tightly, a little bit of desperation seeping into his touch. "It is almost too much to bear at the moment. And you, wife...dancing to my music," he whispered, his hands refusing to be still as they wandered across her back, skimmed her waist- touched the soft swell of her breasts.

She could feel him shaking from the reaction settling in, and she well knew he was soaked with sweat from his exertions. Performing was a double-edged sword, and her husband had not spared himself as he stood at the podium tonight. He was overwhelmed, she realized, and very near the point of mental exhaustion. One didn't spend a lifetime of being shunned by one's peers, only to become celebrated and even admired without consequences. He would need some quiet time to digest his success before he would be able to accept it as his due. She turned the talk away from his triumph tonight and reached for the mundane. For the soothing touch of family.

"Hugo didn't seem too disappointed that we aren't going home with him tonight."

Gratefully, he cast his mind away from the shock of the limelight and shook his head. "I don't wonder at it. He cajoled me into taking him to the Bois tomorrow so he can feed peanuts to the organ grinder's monkey. He has taken a fancy to it."

"Oh, no you don't, Erik! You will not bring a monkey home! We already have too many cats...a... a pony, and a pair of lovebirds. He's been angling for a dog now, and Maria will have your head if you do! And she doesn't want any more amphibians in the house; Hugo should leave the frogs in the park and _not_ on her dinner table."

"He only wants to feed the monkey peanuts, Louise, not invite it to dine with us!" he protested.

"That's a relief!" she said, reaching up and smoothing his hair back. "What else does he have planned for his papa?"

"He extracted a promise from me to rent a boat, and kindly informed me he will do all of the rowing so I may rest, due to my advanced age," he replied wryly.

"Ooh, that _is_ nice of him! I thought I heard your knees creaking," she told him playfully, "but a rest won't hurt. After I'm through with you tonight, you'll need it."

"Hoyden," he said fondly. "Care to join us?"

"Would your son approve?"

He rocked her gently in his arms, and put his lips to her ear. "Doesn't matter," he whispered. "His father does," and Louise laughed.

He looked down at her, still so taken by this graceful woman who had consented to be his wife. "Louise, I asked you here because-" He was interrupted by a tap on the door and slipped out of her arms to answer it. She knew who it was before the comtesse entered the room.

Christine stood on the threshold with the Persian, who took one look at Louise standing in the middle of the room and broke into a huge grin.

Erik narrowed his eyes at the sight of that smile taking up most of Nadir's swarthy face, and closed the door on it.

Christine looked up at the slender man before her. He had changed. The white mask was fitted to his face; cut out around his thin lips and bony chin, only appearing as a pale blur from Box Five; it was more life-like now than it had been seven years ago, allowing him the illusion of normality, at least from a distance. Up close, it was more readily apparent. His formal suit fit his lean form in a way that accentuated all the positives in his lanky frame; he was elegant and sophisticated...two words she never would have used to describe Erik when he was her teacher. But probably the biggest difference was the change in his demeanor- he was a satisfied man and it showed. All due no doubt to the tall woman behind him who believed in something no one else had.

Erik observed his former pupil and decided that life had been good to her as well. She remained a pretty woman, still slender, but the thing which stood out the most, was the look of a woman who had found her niche in life- one far from the stage. He felt the old pain blossom in his chest; the knowledge that a great talent was left to waste away from disuse. He would never understand a woman's need to create life rather than the creation of pure, exquisite sound...but he accepted it. The diva who now graced the Garnier's stage was a blessing compared to the retired Carlotta, but would never have Christine's vocal range, or sheer crystal tones. He sighed and glanced at his wife, who was closely watching the other woman, then back to Christine. "Thank you for seeing us tonight, comtesse. I promise not to take very much of your time."

His voice could still raise a shiver along her back. That beautiful timbre which was alluring whether in speech or raised in song. The times in his little home she had wondered what those long, supple hands would have felt like against her skin; a faceless lover who had an element of mystery hidden behind that black silk; the mystery harshly solved when she had wrenched his mask away and found what was hidden beneath it.

Those images had faded with time, but now they came rushing back. When she read his note, she thought it would be just the two of them, and she had looked forward in girlish anticipation to meeting him after seven years. Never mind that she couldn't wait to get away from him when he was a broken man, ill and seemingly used up. She had willingly left him behind and escaped into her new life as the Comtesse de Chagny, only dragging out his memory in the velvet darkness when her hidden thoughts had freer rein. She had thought him to be dead, and although he had once been a danger to her and others, throughout the years she had regretted her lack of compassion to a soul lost and hurting. Seeing him successful and happy, she felt the weight of that old guilt slip free.

Erik ushered both ladies to chairs, but remained standing. "I'm certain you are wondering about my need to see you again, comtesse, but we-"

"Please, Erik, there's no need to be so formal, is there?"

"Very well. When Louise told me she had met you this afternoon, I thought it was more than time to offer my profound apologies to you for the way you were treated... by me." He cleared his throat and put his hands behind his back. To Christine it brought back memories of lessons in his home, and his similar stance when he was lecturing her on some fine point of pitch or inflection. She had the oddest feeling of having come full circle, to once again be in his presence. He was alive, she kept telling herself. Alive. And she was glad, but it would have to be her secret. Raoul would not feel as she did. Ever.

"...forgive me, Christine?"

She was jolted out of her reverie. "Yes...I forgive you for that." She looked down at her gloved hands.

"I had the temerity to force you into receiving my instruction when you were confused and still grieving for your father. For nearly killing your b...the vicomte. It is a frail thing indeed, but you have my heartfelt apology."

He watched her face, his dream of her becoming a great diva turned to ashes years ago. In his own happiness with his wife and son, it had been the one thing he regretted the most. Taking advantage of a young girl's youth and inexperience- her still active grief over her father's death, and foisting his tutelage onto her frail shoulders, and starting a series of events which inadvertently led to Philippe de Chagny's death.

She had to know one thing. "Did you kill Philippe?"

"Directly?" He shook his head. "No, I did not. He was floating in the lake when I found him."

Christine regarded him silently for a moment, seeing a man who had wrestled with his demons. And won. "I forgave you years ago when I thought you were...you were...dead." She smiled slightly to see his shoulders relax a little. She turned to Louise. "I however am surprised that your subterfuge has continued, madame, even into this afternoon when you could have told me the identity of your husband then. It was a shock for me to see who was conducting the Paris Orchestra," she said, her tone brittle.

Louise was about to open her mouth to reply, when her husband spoke up. "I am afraid Louise was protecting me, Christine. She has always done so, even if I have never deserved it," he said quietly.

Louise had the grace to look ashamed. "I hope you can forgive me for misleading you, comtesse. I meant no harm."

"Yes. I finally came to that conclusion myself, but it took me a while to get there," she said bluntly. "Although I had to forgive you, didn't I? You were a friend to me when I first came here and provided me with hot tea when I didn't have a sou to my name! But tonight! Your performance transported me to a world I would love to visit again," she got to her feet, "unfortunately, it is time to return home. I miss my husband."

Louise got to her feet as well and took the other woman's hands in hers. "It's been good seeing you again, Christine. Don't be a stranger. Come back to Paris more often."

"I'm sure my daughters would like that." She turned to her former teacher. "You have finally met your destiny, I think. There is greatness in your music, Erik. I hope to hear more from you in future."

"You may be sure of it, Christine," gently taking one of her hands and placing a light kiss on the knuckles.

"That's not the way of Parisians," and smiling, stood on tiptoe, bracing her hands on his shoulders. "Come down here, maestro," she said softly, and when he dutifully leaned over, she kissed each masked cheek before stepping back. "I don't have to tell you to take care of that young son of yours! He's quite his father's champion. My Adelphe was very pleased with him." She looked up one last time at the retired opera ghost, her fear of him a thing of the past, before preceding Nadir Khan out the door. "And do not forget... he owes her a cat!" her laughter floating back to them as she disappeared down the hallway.

He turned to his wife, an unseen eyebrow raised in inquiry. "A cat?"

"Hugo promised her youngest daughter a kitten."

"I hardly think we need bother delivering a kitten clear across the countryside," he muttered, dismissing the notion out of hand. "After all, there are felines the length and breadth of France."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, but apparently Raoul is not fond of them and Christine thought if it was a gift, it would be acceptable."

"He doesn't enjoy cats, eh?" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Then the young mam'selle shall have one." He tilted his head. "Perhaps two. And I know just the man to deliver them."

"Is he a charming Persian gentleman of our long acquaintance?" Louise grinned and looped her arms around his neck.

"Mm. I'm certain he won't mind in the least."

"Frightening, isn't it? Our thoughts seem to run along the same lines anymore."

"Frightening? No. Not at all. I would call it interesting." He put a finger to his upper lip and stroked it. "Very interesting. Well then, do you know what I am thinking right at this moment?"

"The don awaits."

He smiled with satisfaction. "Why, yes," he murmured. "Clever, clever girl."

"Of course. I have to try and keep up with you, don't I?"

He laughed outright at that, the beautiful sound of it teasing her already heightened nerve endings as they started down the deserted hallway. The sound of hushed voices suddenly reached them, and Louise let out a squeak of protest as Erik grabbed her around the waist, hauling her into a dark corner- his old friend.

"Why are we hiding?" she asked, bracing her hands on his chest. They were standing in a shallow niche provided by the gilded statue of Terpsichore, the goddess of dance. The muse's sightless eyes stared with blank unconcern at the man and woman huddled against her.

"Some of my more entrenched habits do indeed die hard," he said softly, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He held a finger to her lips. "Shh."

He no sooner had, the young girls appeared in the hallway.

The smaller of the two nervously glanced around. "I _told _you, Agnes! I heard him laughing. I swear I did!"

"The ghost hasn't been spotted in years," she replied shortly. "You must have heard one of the stage crew, you silly twit!"

"Well, if there isn't any opera ghost, then I dare you to walk into Box Five. _Alone_."

"Whatever for, Josie?"

The younger girl shrugged her shoulders. "Just to prove you're not scared even a little. Where's the harm if you don't believe?"

All the while the two ballet rats argued, Erik had his wife pinned against the wall. She stood there quietly in his arms, her nose uncomfortably pressed into his bony Adam's apple. "Won't they ever leave?" she whispered irritably.

"They are leaving _now,_" he growled, his frustration apparent.

"All right, but don't you _dare_ enjoy it," she warned.

His exhilaration from their triumphant evening had him feeling decidedly puckish, but the excited light in his eyes dimmed a little. He had been prepared to have Terpsichore speak to the insufferable little dancers as he had done on occasion in the past. It had always amused him to watch as chorus girls and ballet rats alike, had turned in confusion searching for the owner of that sepulchral voice, only to hear it issuing from the cold marble lips of one of the many statues in the Garnier. Unfortunately, Louise was right. They didn't need a re-emergence of the opera ghost fueling the superstition of the company. He would have to take the edge off of his elation through other means. Delightful means.

The half-lidded glance he gave his wife was a different one altogether. She knew that look well. "Yes," she breathed, and tightened her hold on him. "I want you too," her mouth widening in a smile of anticipation.

Agnes turned in a circle in the passage, shaking her head. She did _not _hear voices. She did not. She stared at Josie. "D-Do you hear voices?" and when Josie nodded, her eyes wide and fearful, Agnes put hands on hips. "You only want to frighten me and it is _not _working. There is no such thing as the opera ghost and you know it!" she retorted, fed up with this childish game. "He is just an ugly old spook drummed up by the older girls to frighten us!"

_Oh_,_ ho. Old and ugly, is it? Child, even though it is true, you have just thrown down the gauntlet. _It was an opportunity he could not allow to pass by. Louise could do repair work tomorrow during rehearsal. With an apologetic glance at his wife, he became the ghost one last time.

"_Agnesss__," _the spectral voice hissed in her ear, and she froze. "_Don't look behind you,_" and Agnes jumped as though flames were licking at her feet. _Nothing_ could induce her to remain there, as she let out a banshee screech and fled the corridor, never once looking back. Josie was on her own.

She stared after her friend who was running as though chased by the devil. "Where are you going?" Her own disquiet mounting, she stared in bewilderment as the tutu clad body of Agnes disappeared down the hallway.

Her look of agitation mixed with unease amused Erik very much, but he had indulged himself this one time, and managed to keep quiet. Not so Louise; the situation was too absurd- the former opera ghost cowering in a dark corner with the ballet mistress. It was absolutely ridiculous and she clapped a hand over her mouth. She would have to have a talk with the two girls on the morrow and convince them they were hearing things. Louise had been impressed when Agnes sprung into the air in fright- it had proved to be a very nice brise, and a jump the girl had never done well until now. All that would be required for a repetition of it in rehearsal tomorrow would be to scare the girl silly. Which only increased Louise's hysteria, and she felt the betraying bray of laughter bubbling up. Erik stiffened beside her, and her other hand joined the first, clamping tight against her lips, as the unstoppable snort became a giggle, escaping before she could stifle it.

Josie's eyes widened in wonderment, and she turned and fled after her friend. No one would believe her. No one. "The ghost has a lady!" she shrieked. "I-I heard her. Mon Dieu! The ghost has a lady!"

"Yes, and quite an amused one at that," he agreed dryly, as he eyed the lady in question. He straightened to his full impressive height and took his wife firmly by the hand, his impatience growing as he led her to the fifth cellar and their assignation with the don.

"There is no ghost," she replied, her loving eyes shining up at him.

And it was so.

He had become a man with all of the joys and tribulations that state of being entailed. The Phantom was gone. Erik lived. The slight breeze from their passing disturbed a program from La vie dans un reve lying on the floor. The morning's paper L'Epoque, would, in only a few hours, declare the new ballet a triumph, and a dream realized by its elusive composer and the prima ballerina.

It was the simple truth.

_Fini_


End file.
